


Little Wolf (the boy's got the devil in him)

by TheReluctantShipper



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail Hobbs Lives, Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Romantic Comedy, Kid Fic, Like a Romance and a Thriller Had a Baby, M/M, Morally Grey Will Graham, Religious Content, Sassy Will Graham, Supernatural Elements, Will Graham Helps Himself, Will is a Father, Will's Child is... Unique
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28370550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheReluctantShipper/pseuds/TheReluctantShipper
Summary: Will Graham smells like several dogs (more than five, probably fewer than ten), the vague dust and paper scent of a classroom, and absolutely atrocious aftershave, none of which are particularly interesting, aside from the man they cling to. Will himself, of course, is very interesting.Even moreso is the scent of brimstone, fire, and some brand of sour gummy candy abomination that also lingers around him.Dr. Hannibal Lecter has a secret. Will is willing to bet that his own secret is more interesting, and cuter to boot.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 122
Kudos: 494





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is (obviously) a work of fanfiction. I don't own anything but the original characters. I don't claim ownership over the characters or storylines of any versions of Hannibal, no matter how grateful I am for them, which is hella.
> 
> \- No posting schedule, because I am a garbage person comprised of garbage, and cannot commit to anything but my husband.
> 
> \- This fic is dedicated to my brother, who encourages my madness on the daily and who helped several key and not-key points of this fic come to be.
> 
> \- You can come see me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thereluctantshipper) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/TheReluctantSh1?s=09) if me sharing fan edits and bitching about writer's block floats your boat.
> 
> \- I come by any mistakes here honestly, but feel free to point them out so I can correct them.
> 
> \- For the purposes of this story, Abigail has just turned 17 when her father is killed.
> 
> \- *waves* Hi, Hannibal fandom! This is my first work in this fandom, so I'm a little nervous, but still excited! Be gentle, but not like, _too_ gentle.
> 
> \- Feedback is life.

When Jack Crawford approaches Dr. Hannibal Lecter to enlist his help with profiling a serial killer, a thrill whips down the doctor’s spine that he hasn’t felt in a very long time. His hunting habits have not gone stale by any means, but anything that can make an old predator like him feel a shiver of apprehension is something to be treasured and savored.

When he arrives at the FBI Academy, he’s led to Agent Crawford’s office with no fuss. Hannibal is a few minutes early, but not so much as to be rude. Even so, Jack waves him in at once, though he is not alone.

A man who appears to be almost a decade younger than Hannibal himself is examining the photos and reports pinned to one of the many whiteboards lining the walls of the office. Slim and pale, he’s wearing khakis and a plaid shirt. While he wears them well, the ensemble is very casual for what should be a professional meeting. A scruffy beard and riotous curls complete the overall impression.

When he turns to look at Hannibal, however, his eyes are sharp and clear, a striking grey-blue. Eye contact is fleeting, but the man is relaxed and confident - a habit of avoiding meeting gazes rather than nerves.

 _Possibly somewhere on the autism spectrum,_ Hannibal muses.

“Dr. Lecter, please let me introduce you to Will Graham, one of the FBI’s finest.”

If his heart was prone to skipping beats, it would do so now. As it is, another delicious zing of interest makes itself known. Oh, he has certainly heard of Professor Graham, a man so attuned to killers and their motives that it’s as if he’s reading their minds. So well-versed in their thoughts and emotions that he’s able to spill those secrets out to FBI hopefuls three times a week. Hannibal has idly toyed with the idea of engineering a meeting, but as it always seems to be, luck is his in this regard.

Will offers a hand to shake, and Hannibal manages to conceal how eager he is for it. Will’s hand is warm, dry, and calloused, but not from handling firearms. Some sort of frequent manual labor, then.

“Dr. Lecter, it’s a pleasure. Good to have you on board.” A faint Southern accent lingers in the words. Dear Will was not born in Virginia, despite what the region has done to smooth out his speech. His eyes have drifted down to the knot of Hannibal’s tie.

“Please, consider me at your disposal.” Hannibal nods to the whiteboard Will was perusing. “Tell me then, how many confessions?”

Jack scowls. “Twelve dozen, last time I checked. None of them knew details until this morning. Some genius in Duluth PD took a picture of Elise Nichols’ body with their phone and shared it with a few close friends. Freddie Lounds ran it on Tattlecrime.”

Will makes an angry noise deep in his throat, an almost subvocal growl that stutters pleasantly along Hannibal’s senses. “Tasteless.”

Wildly intrigued, Hannibal asks, “Do you have trouble with taste?”

Will meets his eyes again. Amusement softens his features again. “My thoughts are often not tasty.”

The corner of his mouth twitches upward in delight. “Nor mine. No effective barriers.”

Thought it wasn’t a question, Will answers with a smile. “Oh, I build forts.”

“Associations come quickly.”

“So do forts.”

The amusement growing in Hannibal’s chest is mirrored in Will’s eyes, now focused just over Hannibal’s left shoulder. It’s not the familiar dark humor, laced with anger and derision, that he sometimes feels when he’s playing with the simple people he meets in his day to day life. He so rarely finds someone with the acuity to keep up with him. Oh, yes, Will Graham might be very diverting indeed.

Will’s pocket beeps before he can spar with the man again. A rueful expression settles on Will’s fine features.

“I’m afraid that’s it for me, gentlemen,” he says, “I have to go, my next class starts soon.”

Jack frowns. “Will, I-”

Will is gathering a worn jacket and equally worn satchel. “We discussed this, Jack. I can help between classes and during my office hours, but I’m a teacher first.” He nods to Hannibal. “It was nice to meet you, Dr. Lecter.”

“And you, Professor Graham.”

Will gives him a crooked smile. “Please, just Will.”

“Will,” Jack snaps. “Another girl could die while you’re off handing out worksheets about killers we’ve already caught.”

Will stiffens, then finally looks directly at Jack. “That’s a low blow, Jack, and you know it. You have Dr. Lecter here now, not to mention Alana just down the road. Hell, call Heimlich up at Harvard, I’m sure he’d love to help.” Will turns and walks toward the door. Before he steps through it, he stops but doesn’t turn around. “Don’t mistake this favor I’m doing for you for obligation. I’m not an agent, I’m a teacher.” With that, he leaves.

Jack heaves a sigh and slumps in his chair. Hannibal is almost giddy at how many facets of Will he’s been witness to. He sits in one of the chairs on the other side of Jack’s desk.

“I… Maybe shouldn’t have poked him like that,” Jack admits dryly.

“He possesses an admirable dedication to his profession.”

Jack snorts. “Wasting his talents behind a teaching lectern, maybe.”

“You’d rather he be in the field?”

“Will could put a lot of killers away, the way he can empathize with them. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Hannibal tilts his head in acknowledgment. “It must take a great toll on him, to let monsters in his head.”

Jack grunts. “I’d help him through it.”

In the defensiveness of the words, Hannibal reads a man who might try to help Will Graham, but who would not be able to help himself when it comes to using Will’s brilliant mind until it cracked. A man who sees murderers caught as the justified end and the people who must run themselves ragged to do it as the regrettable means. Not a bad man, as much as Hannibal puts stock in arbitrary labels like “good” or “bad,” but a driven man.

“Well, anyway,” Jack says abruptly, “do you have a couple of hours to look the case over?”

Hannibal smiles. “I think I can help you and Will see the face of your killer.”

Wild horses couldn’t draw him away now.

* * *

Will Graham stands in a cold Minnesota field where he spends a few minutes cursing Jack Crawford, the Minnesota Shrike, Delta fucking airlines, and himself most of all. He let Jack pique his curiosity when he should have told the man to get the hell out of his classroom. Now that damn curiosity has him in Minnesota after a shitty flight despite all the reasons he really should have stayed in Virginia.

When he sees the gift that’s been left for him, however, even his internal bitching quiets.

Her skin is fair, smooth, and unblemished. Her straight dark hair falls to the ground and sways gracefully in the light. The antlers are a jarring humiliation where they’ve punched through her flesh, but there’s an undeniable elegance to the picture in front of him.

An almost _familiar_ elegance. Will doesn’t know whether to be wildly flattered by the gift, insulted that the giver thinks that he needs such blatant clues, or irritated that he’s been dragged _back_ to Minnesota.

Probably all there, if he’s being honest with himself.

He listens to Zeller prattle on for a minute before he interrupts. It’s not that Zeller is all that bad, necessarily, but Will can feel the dislike pouring off of him. It’s done little to endear him to Will. 

“He’s mocking her,” he says, cutting Zeller off. He shrugs. “Or us. But this little scene was designed to humiliate _someone.”_

Jack hums from next to him. “Where did all his love go?”

Will shoots him an incredulous look. “Jack, whoever tucked Elise Nichols into bed as an apology did _not_ do this. He _does_ love his victims, yes, and he wants to keep them forever. He has no interest in… Field kabuki.” He waves a falsely dismissive hand at the body.

He stays a few more minutes, gives Jack his insight about the Shrike’s daughter like the man isn’t the head of the BAU. He wonders what he’s even doing here.

It really is a lovely gift, though.

* * *

Hannibal knocks on Will’s motel room door early the next morning, studiously keeping the distaste at his surroundings to himself. The FBI offered him a room here, too. He opted to pay for his own accommodations.

He’s hoping to catch Will off-guard, to get a glimpse of the professor thought of his gift. Of course, Will doesn’t know who it was from, but Hannibal often finds that people are more honest when they don’t have all the facts.

His second offering, a breakfast scramble made from the terribly rude girl who also comprised his first gift (really, Hannibal would be grateful had she not so rudely blown smoke in his face), rests in the glass Tupperware containers along with a thermos of coffee and two sets of silverware and napkins in his cooler. He’d never show up so early in the morning without breakfast.

He’s taken aback when Will answers the door fully dressed, eyes bright and half-smile freely given. There’s a phone pressed to his ear. Still, he waves Hannibal in and shuts the door behind him.

The motel room is just as bland and impersonal as Hannibal feared it would be. It’s clean enough, he supposes, but the smell of the single-serve drip coffeemaker makes his nose wrinkle for the briefest moment before he controls himself.

“Yeah, he does that,” Will is saying. His voice is immeasurably fond. “Sorry.”

Hannibal lays out breakfast on the small kitchen table on one side of the room and shamelessly listens in. He also pours the pathetic cup of coffee that’s already there out before filling the cup again with what he brought.

“All right. Well, I really appreciate this, Mikey. Yeah, maybe as much as another day or two, I don’t know how long the investigation will take. Thanks again. Yeah, sure.”

Will has time to take his seat across from Hannibal and cock an imperious brow at the clearly superior coffee in his chipped mug before someone on the other line speaks again.

The transformation on Will’s face takes Hannibal’s breath away. His features soften and his eyes warm where they’ve moved down to rest on the table in front of him. A gentle, adoring smile graces his full mouth. Hannibal wants to bite at it.

“Hey, pup,” Will murmurs. “Soon, I hope. I know. You know why, though, right? Okay, I love you, pup.” After listening for another moment, he smiles and hangs up the phone. He closes his eyes for just a beat before he finally meets Hannibal’s eyes.

“I’d apologize for being on the phone, but you’re the one who knocked on my door.” He picks up his coffee. “Where’s Jack?”

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal says pointedly to watch Will’s face crease in a smile again. He’s not disappointed. “Jack is deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today.”

Will hums and takes a sip of coffee. The sound turns into a soft moan of appreciation that appeals to Hannibal in every conceivable way.

 _“God,_ that’s good. You’re forgiven for the early intrusion.”

“I was surprised to find you awake,” Hannibal admits, though “mildly disappointed” would be accurate. Will Graham before he has had the chance to fortify his forts for the day must be a sight to behold.

“I had to check on my son,” Will says with forced casualness. His eyes are sharp on Hannibal, watching for his reaction.

Surprise has his eyebrows raising, but that’s the only visible way Hannibal allows himself to react.

“I wasn’t aware that you’re a father.”

Will picks his phone up again, fiddles with the screen, and offers it to Hannibal. It displays a photo of a small boy, younger than ten years old. He’s pale with sharp features and straight, dark hair. His eyes are almost as red as Hannibal’s.

“Lowell,” Will says, the warmth that Hannibal now identifies as paternal back in his voice.

“Ah, an Old French name. ‘Little wolf.’”

Will smiles, pleased. “Exactly right.”

Hannibal studies the photo for another moment before handing it back. “He’s a very handsome boy, but he does not take after you.”

Will stiffens infinitesimally. “He’s adopted, but he’s no less mine for his biological parentage.”

Now Hannibal is truly surprised. Will does not wear a ring, nor is there any mention of a partner or spouse in any public record of the man that Hannibal has been able to find. He can, perhaps, understand why the adoption wasn’t made public, but if there’s no one else, it means that Will set out with the goal of single fatherhood. Quite unusual.

It feels like curiosity is burning a hole in his chest. Why did Will want to become a father? What made him choose Lowell? How long has he had him? Does he face judgment for his choices? Does Lowell?

Instead of asking any of those questions, he senses that this is a precarious moment, so he gives Will a tiny nod. “Of course not. I never meant to imply otherwise.”

Will stares at him hard for another moment before relaxing. “You’re right. He doesn’t look like me, but he’s a good kid.” He looks at the table again and finally seems to realize there’s food in front of him. “What’s all this, now?”

“I’m very careful about what I put into my body, which means I end up preparing most meals myself. A little protein scramble to start the day. Some egg, some sausage.”

Will hums and takes a bite. As soon as it touches his tongue, he freezes and slowly drags his gaze back up to meet Hannibal’s. Hannibal is enthralled, wishing desperately that he could read the emotions flickering over Will’s fine features.

Will finishes chewing and swallows, never breaking eye contact. “It’s delicious, thank you,” he says softly.

“It’s my pleasure, Will.”

They eat in silence for several minutes, which suits Hannibal perfectly. He prefers to focus on food while eating, and it gives him the opportunity to watch raptly as Will partakes in his kill.

When they’ve finished, Hannibal splits the rest of the coffee between their two cups and they both sit back in their chairs.

“I’m sure you have better things to do than door-to-doors with me,” Will says, wrapping his hands around his mug as if savoring the warmth it offers. Hannibal briefly contemplates being jealous of cheap crockery.

“It’s no trouble at all. I’m happy to offer any insights I can.”

Will heaves a sigh that seems to come from deep within him, settling heavily on his shoulders. “Anything to try to wrap this up faster,” he admits softly. “I’ve worked hard not to have to leave Lowell for very long… Ever. It’s not easy being this far from him.”

“I’ll do my best to get you home sooner.”

Will smiles, but it’s small and almost bitter this time. It’s still enchanting. “If we don’t get a lead by tomorrow, I might just… Go home. Jack will be mad, but I’m not sure I care.”

Hannibal gives Will his own hesitant smile. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Will cocks an eyebrow. “Lying for me already, Dr. Lecter? How very forward of you.”

Hannibal’s smile becomes more genuine. “God forbid we become friendly.”

Will barks out a laugh that surprises both of them. “God, indeed. What if I just don’t find you that interesting?” There’s a teasing, warm light in his eyes that smooths the sharp edges from the sentiment.

Hannibal just hides a smile behind his own chipped mug. “You will.”

* * *

The good Dr. Lecter is up to something. Will doesn’t know what, but he has an uncontrollable urge to thwart whatever the man is plotting.

He has to admit, even just to himself, that he _likes_ Hannibal. A certain amount of ice in the veins would be needed to be what Hannibal is and still walk into the FBI, to follow them to Minnesota to immerse himself in an investigation into someone so like him. A kind of reckless bravery Will can get behind.

But he really _does_ need to get home to his son and he has a feeling that whatever Hannibal is planning is going to make his job that much harder. So he sticks to the man like glue under the flimsy excuse of only one of them having a badge. Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind overmuch.

They’re damn near shoulder to shoulder in the cramped office of the second construction company they’ve been to that day, flipping through employee files and ignoring the flustered woman’s hissed whispers behind them.

As Will contemplates whether or not he thinks Hannibal will lower himself to a fast-food lunch or if they’ll have to find a fancy restaurant, he lands on a resignation letter that makes his hand tingle. He stares down at it for a beat. It looks ordinary, though there’s no address left. Nothing should distinguish it from the other letters in the folder.

And yet…

“Garret Jacob Hobbs,” he murmurs, staring down at a murderer’s signature.

“What was that, Will?” Hannibal asks.

He ignores the question to look back up at the woman from the construction company. “Does Mr. Hobbs have a daughter?”

* * *

As they load the pertinent file boxes into the trunk, Hannibal damn near gets him. Will’s distracted, thinking about Hobbs, fleshing out the profile he intends to give Jack, and arguing with himself.

He needs to go home. Lowell likes Mikey enough to not do anything _too_ terrible, but every extra day in Minnesota is pushing their luck. Outside of avoiding trouble, Will _misses_ his son, as well as their pack of strays and their little home in Wolf Trap. He wants to go home.

He also wants to see this through. He wants to finish the case, see the conclusion. He wants to be the one who catches the Minnesota Shrike.

 _We’ll just go see him. I’ll confirm that it’s him, I’ll know after I talk to him. Then I’ll tell Jack, he can send in a team, and I can go home._ It will be a blow to his pride to give the Shrike away, but he’ll be home with his son soon. Maybe early enough to tuck him into bed, even.

He turns back to get the last of the boxes when he sees the box in Hannibal’s hands tip over the railing, spilling folders and papers over Dixie, the woman who’s been so short with them today.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to offer to pick them up himself (Beau Graham would never have raised a son who didn’t offer to help a lady), but the way Hannibal looks at him expectantly has him biting his first instinct back. It would free Hannibal to go back into the office alone, and Will is suddenly sure that’s the last thing he wants.

Instead, he smiles at Dixie. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Lecter and I will get it.”

Hannibal’s eyes flash, but he doesn’t argue. Will has the feeling that he’s just dodged a very complicated bullet.

* * *

When they get to the Hobbs’ house, Will glances over at Hannibal. Whatever plot he’s foiled, Hannibal doesn’t seem to be holding it against him. He looks almost excited.

“Just a brief interview,” Will says. “I… I think I’ll know if Hobbs is our man after that. Between the two of us, I think we’ll be certain.”

Hannibal nods. “Whatever you say, Will.”

Will gets the feeling that’s not a common phrase for Hannibal. He also gets the feeling that it’s not totally sincere, but he doesn’t really have time to look further into that.

He gets out of the car and starts toward the Hobbs home. It’s tidy and well-kept, if a little dated. The autumn breeze is crisp against his face as it rustles the leaves.

He gets halfway there before he realizes that Hannibal is lagging. The attempts to manipulate the situation are getting more blatant - Will can’t tell if he’s irritated or amused, once again.

He stops and turns. “Everything all right?”

Again, Hannibal’s eyes flash dangerously and again, he favors Will with a smile instead of whatever else he wants to do.

“Of course. Admiring the countryside.”

Will waits until they can walk abreast before continuing to the house. He knocks on the door and studies Hannibal while they wait. The man is “observing the countryside” again, but Will thinks he knows he’s being watched. 

He is handsome in a way that one has to be eased into. Sharp harsh features laid over with a vicious sort of intelligence. No matter how many plaid suits he uses to hide his bulk, or how polite he is with his old-world manners, there will likely always be something just a little ruthless about Hannibal Lecter.

His misgivings are interrupted by the front door opening. A relatively attractive middle-aged woman stands there, blonde hair pulled back in a knot, a polite smile on her face.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

Will pulls out his badge and shows it to her through the screen door. “Ma’am, my name is Will Graham, I’m with the FBI. This is my associate, Dr. Lecter. We’re looking for Garrett Hobbs?”

The skin around her eyes tightens. “I’m his wife. Is there something I can help you with?”

Will tries to return her polite smile, though he suspects he just looks twitchy. “We just have a few questions for your husband. Is he home?”

She seems to come to a decision. “He is. Stay here, please. I’ll go get him for you?”

When she steps away, Will finds himself wound tight as a bowstring. There’s a sense in the air that dances across his instincts and tells him to brace for something awful, something brutal.

In contrast, Hannibal is relaxed and casual at his side. Their eyes catch each other and Hannibal starts to add his own polite smile to the weird little collection of the morning when a soft cry is cut off by a wet gurgling sound inside the house. Even as Will is lunging for the door handle, a much louder scream tears through the air.

Though he argued at the time, Will is extremely grateful Jack insisted he take a gun with him even just on interviews. He pulls it out now and enters the home. His hands tremble finely, from fear or anticipation, he can’t tell. He sweeps and clears rooms swiftly and almost sloppily. 

He already knows where his suspect is, anyway.

He doesn’t bother stopping to check on Louise Hobbs. He already knows she’s dead, but there’s someone he _can_ save, and she’s who he’s headed for. He steps over the prone woman and goes through the final door.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs stands on one side of the kitchen brandishing a knife. His eyes are glued to his daughter, who stands on the other side of the room, her chest heaving with breath. Afternoon light spills across the scene, almost surreally normal in the middle of such trauma.

Hobbs’ eyes meet Will’s for the briefest moment before he looks back at his daughter, a sick, twisted, angry sort of love in them.

_She’s mine! I’m the only one who can love her! I’m the only one who can protect her! Look at what I’ve already done to protect her!_

Will glances to the girl, whose own eyes are alternating between him and her father rapidly, only expressing one sentiment clearly enough to be read through the terror.

_Daddy, please!_

And, well. Will has never ignored that particular plea.

Hobbs lunges forward, probably to cut his daughter’s throat. With her desperate, silent cry still echoing in his heart, Will doesn’t give him the chance.

Will is _furious._ How _dare_ this man - no, this _monster_ \- throw away the gift of fatherhood he has been given? This lovely family has a lovely home, and he has the audacity to let his psychoses lay even a finger on those who depend on him? He, who doesn’t have to deal with even _half_ the darkness that Will himself battles, he _dares_ let his compulsions put his child in danger?

One shot would have stopped Hobbs, and two would have probably killed him. It would have been sufficient to save the girl’s life.

Will doesn’t stop at two.

He puts nine rounds into the torso of Garret Jacob Hobbs before the red haze of fury clears from his gaze. His hands are shaking much more severely now, his ears are ringing, and his breath is coming in staccato bursts, but he manages to holster his gun again. He lets his eyes linger on Hobbs again for one more moment before turning to the girl.

Her blue eyes are wide and tears are falling down her cheeks. She’s pale, so very pale, and she looks poignantly, painfully young.

Will puts his hands up and takes a slow, cautious step toward her. “Hey,” he says softly, gently, “are you hu-”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his question. She launches herself into his arms, buries her face in his shoulder, and starts wailing. Will doesn’t hesitate for even a nanosecond - he wraps his arms around her and holds her tight to him. He keeps one hand on the back of her head and whispers into her hair.

“Shh, it’s over, I’ve got you, you’re safe now.”

He turns when he senses movement, but it’s just Hannibal finally joining them. His hands and the sleeves of his shirt are covered in blood. He must have checked and confirmed Louise Hobbs’ condition.

Their eyes meet over the sobbing girl’s head (Will’s going to have to ask her what her name is soon, and _that’s_ going to be awkward). An understanding passes between the two men. Hannibal nods and steps away to alert Jack and the authorities.

Will stays where he is, cradling the girl to his chest, and resigns himself to not getting home that night.


	2. Chapter Two

The day after the Minnesota Shrike was so righteously and beautifully struck down, Hannibal sits with Will in his motel room after a relatively meager dinner.

“My certifications and transcripts finally came through,” Will says, “so they should let me take Abigail home tomorrow.”

Hannibal watched in awe the day before as Will and Abigail Hobbs formed a connection in gunfire and blood. The way they clung to one another in the aftermath, the fierce desperation in every line of their bodies, was stunning to behold. Hannibal’s fingers itch for paper and pencil to preserve the moment forever.

When the issue was raised about where the girl would go, upon the discovery that she has no close or distant relations, Hannibal was compelled to offer his own home to her. He has no particular feelings one way or another about children, but something about Abigail _does_ call to him. A darkness, a feral fighting spirit he saw in her while she hovered close to Will while he spoke with Jack and the authorities the day before. As if she was daring someone to separate them.

And, of course, the opportunity to ingratiate himself further to Will was not to be ignored. Having a child he has dearly bonded with under Hannibal’s roof could yield untold advantages.

Before he could say a word, however, Will spoke up and declared that he would be taking Abigail home with him. He has a spare bedroom, and because of his experiences adopting his son (a glimpse into his personal life that Will was obviously uncomfortable allowing), his home already has CPS approval. Will has gathered certifications and taken classes about helping traumatized children and teens, and three of his seven _(seven!)_ dogs are registered therapy animals. Really, outside of the fact that Will shot her father, there’s no better candidate for her care.

The social worker assigned to Abigail’s case was deeply skeptical, but is clearly overworked past the point of the bright-eyed optimism and strict protocol-following that might have been the only real obstacle. It helped, of course, that even as Will was claiming Abigail, Abigail was constantly asking for Will right back. It was easy to see how anxious the girl got when she and Will had to be separated, and how she relaxed each time they were reunited.

It was a very pretty manipulation, if a bit heavy-handed. She’ll need to be taught a more subtle approach, but she was quite convincing. Hannibal is certain that he didn’t imagine the flicker of pride in Will’s eyes.

The social worker finally agreed on the stipulation that she receive proof of all of Will’s qualifications. Abigail is staying in the psychiatric ward of the hospital for one more night of observation tonight, but Will is determined to go retrieve her as early as possible.

Will runs his hands through his hair, only succeeding in making his curls wilder. “I just want her out of there,” he says softly. “I can’t stand places like that.”

While not state of the art, the hospital Abigail is staying in is by no means a horror. It’s impersonal, but reasonably clean and well-maintained. Hannibal suspects that Will’s objections are more of a personal, irrational nature than that.

“You’ll be able to pick her up in the morning,” he soothes, “and in the meantime, a girl who’s gone through the things Abigail has gone through will benefit from the structure of a hospital setting.” Will scoffs but does not argue aloud.

“What does Lowell say about all of this?”

Again, the mention of his son softens Will, and he smiles. “He’s okay with it. He’s only seven, but he’s incredibly intelligent. He understands that Abigail needs somewhere safe to go.”

Hannibal hums thoughtfully. “I admit, I was surprised when you offered to take Abigail on. Your plate is quite full already, I assume, with your job and your son.”

Will glances at him, then looks away and shrugs. “I have the space and the knowledge to help her. I can provide stability and resources she needs, and at the same time keep her out of the foster system, which might not be the safest option for a pretty seventeen-year-old.”

All reasons that Will has been repeating for a day and a half now. While they’re certainly not untrue, Hannibal suspects they’re not the _whole_ truth, and he will never want anything less than Will’s whole truth.

So he waits and watches. Will holds out only for one fidgeting, uncomfortable minute before he sighs and drops his head into his hands.

“We should have _you_ interrogating suspects,” he mutters darkly. He looks up and meets Hannibal’s eyes again.

“I killed her father, and I wasn’t in time to save her mother. I saved her and orphaned her in the same breath. You were there, you don’t feel it?”

“I feel a staggering amount of responsibility toward Abigail Hobbs. I have not yet had a chance to sort through all of the emotions from the past two days, but my priority is her safety and happiness.”

Will snorts. “Yeah, it’s been a shitty couple of days. I’ll be glad when we’re back home so things can get back to normal.”

“Indeed,” Hannibal agrees, though if he has any say, nothing will ever be the way it was before he knew Will Graham.

* * *

“He might take a while to warm up to you,” Will is saying, “but he will. It just takes some time for him to adjust to change.”

Abigail smiles at Will’s nervous rambling. They’re on their way to pick up Lowell so they can all go home, and while he’s trying hard not to show it, he’s very apprehensive about this meeting. He wants it to go well.

She wants that, too. For so long, almost a year now, _home_ has not been a concept that meant the same thing as _safety._ The people who she’d been taught were supposed to protect her did nothing of the sort. Her mother may have been growing suspicious of the amount of time that Abigail and her father spent together but wasn’t willing to confront him about it. Abigail doesn’t know if her mother was making connections to the missing girls and their trips to colleges or if she thought something more twisted was going on between her father and her, but clearly, neither possibility motivated her enough into action.

And her father… Well, maybe the less said about her father, the better.

Will Graham is the first person in a long time to put himself between Abigail and danger. Maybe it’s not healthy, but she felt connected to him almost instantaneously. Some dark part of him calling to and offering shelter to the dark parts of her.

She knew she wasn’t crazy when she’d been trying to play up the “traumatized teenager” act and he’d not only caught on, but given her a wink when no one else was watching. She feels unaccountably safe with Will Graham and she does not share his nerves about meeting his son or going home with him.

They pull into an apartment complex and park. As they get out of the car, one of the doors from the line of buildings in front of them opens and a small, dark being shoots towards them.

It seems like the child is moving just a _hair_ faster than he should be, but Will doesn’t seem to notice. He drops to his knees and scoops Lowell into his arms, murmuring soothing words into his hair as he… Chews on Will’s sleeve?

The boy is thin, with sharp features that make Abigail think of Dr. Lecter and straight dark hair, which is a little long and messy in the way an unruly child’s hair always is. He’s dressed in all black, which is a little weird, and his feet are bare in defiance of the chill in the air. And yes, he’s sinking his teeth into Will’s sleeve over and over again, the action reading somewhere between desperate and vicious.

He still presses close to his father, though. There’s trust and love in every line of his little body, and when he releases Will’s sleeve, he nuzzles his face to hide in Will’s neck.

Abigail stays by the car, standing there awkwardly until Will remembers her. He stands with Lowell in his arms and a sheepish look on his face. He jostles the boy until he looks up and finally looks at Abigail.

Red eyes study her solemnly. She looks back, some animal instinct telling her not to show uncertainty in front of this strange child.

“Lowell, this is Abigail. We talked about her coming to stay with us, yeah?”

Lowell doesn’t look away from her. “Because your Daddy was bad. He hurt people who didn’t deserve it.” A tiny, adorable frown crosses his face. “He was gonna hurt _you.”_

 _Jeeze, pull no punches, kid._ Before Will can apologize to her or scold Lowell (the uncomfortable expression on his face clearly says he’s dying to do one or the other), Abigail says simply, “Yes.”

Lowell nods, then extends one hand and unfurls his fingers. In his small palm, which seems almost unnaturally clean for a kid with wild hair and bare feet, are two sour gummy worms.

“Wanna gummy, Abi?” For everything strange or off-putting about him, the question sounds just like it would from any other kid, and Will has a relieved grin on his face.

Abigail smiles. “Thank you, Lowell.”

The boy’s answering smile is brightened and fierce.

* * *

A week later, Will is watching the kids fondly while Abi pretends to watch a movie and not notice Lowell stalking her through the living room, weaving between the dogs laying on the floor and scattered around on the furniture. Will’s not sure if she knows that if he _really_ didn’t like her, Lowell has ways of making sure she really wouldn’t know he was there. It’s a testament to his growing attachment to her that he’s being so obvious, almost like a normal kid would. 

Will isn’t sure if she knows, but he thinks she’s catching on if the way she plays along every time the pup “sneaks up” on her is any indication. 

Before his son can pounce, Will’s phone rings. Loathe though he is to answer it, it’s probably work, so he quietly steps into the kitchen, leaving the kids where they are. Buster hops down from the recliner and follows him loyally.

When he looks at his phone, he sees he’s half right.

“Hello?”

“Will, it’s Jack.”

“Jack, what can I do for you?”

Jack sounds irritated and stretched thin. “Where the hell are you?”

Will frowns. “At home?”

 _“Still?”_ Jack bellows, and therefore uses up whatever leeway Will was giving him.

“Yes, still. I have a traumatized teenager and a complicated kid on my hands. I have to take the time to make sure they get settled in if I want to avoid trouble down the line. I’ve got the vacation time - I’ll be back soon.”

“And what are we supposed to do if we get a case?”

Will growls a little. “Jack, I’m not a field agent, nor do I want to be. I _like_ teaching. I’m good at it, and it gives me the regular hours I need to be at home for my son, and now for Abigail.” At Jack’s continued silence, Will rolls his eyes. “You know I’ll consult, look at crime scene reports and photos, visit the lab and look at bodies if I need to, but I’m _not_ going into the field again.”

He’s undermined by his own recent actions, but the Shrike caught his attention and wouldn’t let go. He wonders idly if it was his old instincts telling him to go, leading him down a path to Abigail and, to some extent, Hannibal.

“Fine, fine,” Jack is saying begrudgingly. “That’s not the only reason I called. You need to schedule a psych eval before you come back.”

“To _teach?!”_ Will asks, outraged. For God’s sake, it’s not like he carries a gun with him in the _classroom._

“Even just to teach,” Jack says dryly. Then, a bit more gently, “You killed a man in Minnesota, Will.”

 _Who the hell cares?_ Will bites back his vitriolic response, though. He’s already let Jack see too much aggression lately. He has to walk a very fine line between having a backbone and still being perceived as a mild-mannered teacher. It wouldn’t do to undo all that hard work by showing too many teeth.

“Fine,” he says curtly.

“Call our friend Dr. Lecter, I’m sure he’ll make time for you.”

Ah, another thing Jack’s sharp eyes have noticed - how much time Will and Hannibal spent together in Minnesota. Will’s not sure he cares about Jack seeing _this,_ though. It will be interesting to see how far Jack’s sense of propriety will let him bend the rules in the name of solving cases.

“Maybe I will.”

* * *

Hannibal watches raptly as Will peruses his second-floor library. He moves with the unconscious, easy grace of a predator, the same grace Hannibal himself moves with. Even dressed in worn plaid and jeans, he’s quite arresting. Hannibal wonders if Will would ever allow himself to be dressed in finer clothes.

“How is dear Abigail adjusting?” he asks to distract himself from dangerous fantasies.

Will looks down at him with that soft smile. “She’s doing great.” Affection saturates every syllable. Hannibal wants to lick it off his lips. “The first day was a little rocky, Lowell has a bit of a learning curve. Abi’s a smart girl, though, and they’re remarkably similar. They’re getting along and we’re establishing a routine. They’ll be thick as thieves in no time.”

He can’t prevent himself from asking, “Learning curve?”

Will just hums as he makes his way down the ladder. “Lowell’s a special pup.”

Hannibal is _voraciously_ curious but grudgingly allows the deflection. When Will shares information about his son, it won’t be because Hannibal drags it out of him.

“I’m glad to hear that Abigail is adjusting well, though I fear your routine will soon be disrupted.”

Will frowns. “Oh?”

Hannibal decides that being frank is his best option in this scenario. “Jack has confided in me that he suspects Abigail of aiding her father in the killing of those girls.” A suspicion, if not outright belief, that Hannibal shares.

He watches closely as Will scowls. Darkness suits his angelic features just as much as warmth, affection, and softness do. _What a delightful creature._

“Yeah, well,” Will grumbles, “he can suspect whatever he wants. Abi’s in state-mandated therapy and she’s going every other day right now. She’s in a new place where no one knows who she is. As long as she keeps her head down and we all behave, Jack will have to let it go eventually.”

It’s very interesting that Will isn’t protesting Abigail’s innocence, and it’s something that Hannibal would _dearly_ love to pick apart. However, the mention of Jack’s theories have Will on the defensive. His shoulders have crept up and his eyes glitter with anger. He’s a man willing to protect his family from any danger approaching, and it’s imperative to Hannibal’s plans for the future that Hannibal himself not be perceived as a threat.

Instead, he pulls out a letter he’s already written and lays it on the desk facing Will. “To that end,” he says carefully, “if you’d like to look your psychological evaluation over before I sign?”

Will doesn’t come closer or even glance down at the letter. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Hannibal, who must suppress the urge to preen.

“And what, pray tell, does it say?”

“You’re totally functional and more or less sane.” He allows himself a smile. “Well done.”

Will unsuccessfully fights back his own smile. “Did you just rubber stamp me?”

“Forgive me. I was under the impression that you aren’t willing to go back into the field, and I would hate for what happened in Minnesota to stain your teaching record.”

In reality, Hannibal finds himself eager to meet Will on as equal footing as possible. It will be quite a while before it’s _entirely_ equal, of course, considering Will’s profession and Hannibal’s hunting, but he’d much prefer Will come talk to him out of desire as opposed to obligation.

He can tell that his subterfuge isn’t _quite_ flawless, but there’s no ire in Will’s dry reply.

“Well, my teaching record thanks you, I guess.”

* * *

The next morning, Will is making omelettes for the kids that will turn out looking a lot like scrambled eggs but tasting just fine when Abi hesitantly says, “Um… Will? You should see this.”

When he turns, half dreading a fire, or a small dead woodland creature, or any number of other horrible things (Lowell is not always a morning person), he just sees Lowell making faces at Winston, their newest pack member, and Abigail frowning at her phone.

“What is it?”

She silently gets to her feet, glances meaningfully at Lowell, and walks over to Will to hand over her phone. 

He can already see it’s going to be garbage when he sees the _Tattlecrime_ logo up top. The title, _Takes One to Know One,_ instantly has his hackles rising.

_Freddie fucking Lounds._

He refuses to give her the benefit of his full attention, so he skims the article.

_-how he can empathize with these killers-_

_-adopting a cannibal’s daughter-_

_-a “special needs” son-_

_-unstable, not often allowed onto the scene-_

_-the temptation is too great, in my opinion-_

_-disgusted by the FBI’s willingness to use a man who exhibits all the signs of being a killer… Simply to catch one._

While the last bit is almost amusing, _if only you knew, Lounds,_ the rest is infuriating. He doesn’t so much mind what she says about him - his students know better than to take bullshit like this seriously, and he doesn’t want them in his class if they don’t.

The parts about Abi and the pup, though, piss him right off. Going after his son is a low blow, and Abi has been through more than enough without some second-rate tabloid pusher going after her, too. It makes him want to find Freddie sometime without witnesses to make it crystal clear how displeased he is.

He doesn’t have that luxury anymore, unfortunately. He glances up to see Lowell watching him back closely. Will takes a deep breath in, holds it for a beat, and lets it go slowly. Lowell mirrors him, then goes back to playing some sort of game with Winston and Harley.

He looks at Abigail, who’s watched the exchange curiously and is now scanning Will’s face, looking for his reaction so she knows what to do. The caution in her eyes makes Will’s heart ache. How long was she carefully gauging reactions before Garrett decided that controlling her wasn’t enough?

Will hands the phone back and squeezes her shoulder comfortingly. “Just ignore it, Abi. No one who matters is going to read that, okay?”

She bites her lip and nods hesitantly. “I’m just… Worried about you, I guess. At work.”

Will smiles. “I’ll be all right, Abi. Now, let’s get everyone fed, yeah?”

She smiles, a little shaky but genuine, and nods.

“Yeah, okay.”

* * *

Will stands with Zeller, Price, and Katz in the lab later that day. They’re all staring down at the body of a man absolutely covered in mushrooms. Outside of the occasional dead thing Lowell or one of the dogs brings into the house, Will isn’t actually all that used to the stench of decomposing bodies. He’s grateful for the Vicks that Katz offered when he walked in.

“What has he been soaking in?”

“A highly concentrated mixture of hardwoods, shredded newspaper, and pig poop.” Price answers. “Perfect for growing mushrooms and other fungi.”

Zeller waves a hand. “Wasn’t the mushrooms. What killed all of them was kidney failure.”

Katz looks down at the report in her hand. “Dextrose in all the catheters. He probably used some kind of dialysis or peristaltic to pump fluids after the circulatory systems broke down.”

“Force-feeding them sugar water,” Will murmurs.

“You know who craves sugar water?” Price asks cheerfully. The man is chronically warm and friendly. Will likes him, maybe because of it, maybe in spite of it. “Mushrooms. They _crave_ it, as much as mushrooms can crave anything.”

“Recovering alcoholics crave sugar,” Zeller says, then points to Price. “Don’t take that personally.”

“Oh, I’m not recovering.”

Zeller continues, “Feed sugar to the fungus in your body, the fungus makes alcohol. Friends helping friends, really.”

“Is someone preying on recovering alcoholics? Besides themselves?”

Will is mostly ignoring the Price and Zeller show, outside of the facts they provide. It’s been a full day in the classroom, and he still has to go back and honor his office hours before he can pick Abi and the pup up and go home.

“Alcoholics aren’t the only ones with compromised endocrine systems,” he says, frowning down at the body. “They all died of kidney failure?” Zeller nods, and Will lets his mind race around for a moment before he speaks again.

“Death by diabetic ketoacidosis.”

Katz, who always seems inexplicably delighted when he makes an intuitive leap, turns to look at Zeller gleefully. “Did _you_ know they were diabetics?”

Zeller is glaring at both Will and the body. “We _don’t_ know they’re diabetics.”

Will waves a hand, batting away the doubt and suspicion coming off of Zeller. The man is worse than usual today, almost guilty or defensive. Will wonders if he fucked up somehow.

Whatever it is, it’s not Will’s problem. “They’re all diabetics. He induces a coma and puts them in the ground.”

“How is he inducing diabetic coma?” Katz asks, clearly egging both he and Zeller on, albeit in a friendly manner. Will wonders if she knows what Zeller did.

“He changes their medication. He’s a doctor, or a pharmacist, or works somewhere in medical services.”

Katz sobers a little. “He buries them, feeds them sugar to keep them alive long enough for the circulatory systems to soak it up.”

“So he can feed the mushrooms,” Price says solemnly.

Zeller looks disturbed. “We dug up his mushroom garden.”

Will is frowning again. “He’ll want to grow a new one.”

* * *

Hannibal sits in his office after his last patient of the day. He sips at his glass of wine, letting the flavors roll around on his tongue and savoring each one before swallowing. Open on his tablet is _Tattlecrime._

“Oh, Ms. Lounds. What’s to be done about this?”

Truthfully, he won’t do anything, of course. Not only is Ms. Lounds far too connected to his professional life, but he would never dream of depriving himself of watching Will react to the article in front of him.

A remarkable amount of Hannibal’s time for the last two weeks has been occupied by Will Graham, actually. He finds that he doesn’t mind nearly as much as he might.

* * *

“All right, put the flashcards away, kids,” Will says late that evening. “Dinner’s finally ready.”

Abi and Lowell obediently start clearing the table of the cards Abi was using to help Lowell with math. Abi gives Will a warm smile, and it helps, but he still feels guilty. Not only did they get to the pharmacy too late to catch Eldon Stammets (not too late to save the girl, though), but Will didn’t get the kids home until much later than usual. Lowell hardly seems to notice and Abi has clearly forgiven him, but he still feels the guilt heavy in his chest.

As he serves the fried fish fillets (only for he and Abi), mac and cheese (mostly for Lowell), and waffle fries he whipped up for dinner, he resolves to dial his involvement in cases back even further. Abi and Lowell have both shown remarkable resiliency, but both need stability from him, and he’s determined to provide it.

Just as he’s sitting down, Lowell freezes and slowly turns to stare at the door. The dogs, milling around and settling to lay around and beneath the table at their feet, burst into a frenzy of movement until they’re standing at attention between the door and the dinner table.

“Daddy,” Lowell says slowly, calmly. Some of Will’s long-gone drawl lengthens Lowell’s vowels even now. “Someone’s coming.”

Will’s gut clenches. He hears his cell phone start to buzz on the kitchen counter. He ignores it, but the noise sets Winston, who’s too new to know better, off with a deep, low growl in his chest. Every dog has their hackles up, even easy-going Buster. The air is thick, heavy.

Abi’s eyes are wide as the dinner plates on the table. “Will,” she whispers, “what-”

“Hush, darlin’,” Will says, stress stretching his words out, too. His focus is on Lowell. “Can you tell me who it is, pup?”

Lowell shakes his head. “He’s thinking an awful lot about mushrooms, though.”

Adrenaline dumps into Will’s system like a bucket of cold water over his head. He gets to his feet slowly, exerting ironclad control over his body. It wouldn’t help any of them to panic now.

“Kids,” he says, his voice low and urgent. “Get under the table. Quickly, now.” As they do, Abi curling herself around Lowell and both of them watching the door, Will goes to the kitchen. There, above the cabinets, is a shotgun he keeps cleaned and loaded just something like this. They all need the space that Wolf Trap provides, but it’s a long way from civilization. He was always going to have to depend on himself alone for clean-up.

He takes a stand between the kitchen table and the door, in front of all of the dogs but Buster, who tries to take his own stance in front of Will. _Disobedient little shit,_ he thinks fondly.

The door breaks in with a deafening _crack_ and not much more fanfare than that. Eldon Stammets stands in the doorway, pistol in hand, hair wild, and clothing rumpled. Their eyes meet for only a moment- 

_-the only one who can understand. I’ll do him a favor. I’ll plant him, his son, and the girl. They’ll be connected forever, and I’ll finally-_

-before Will squeezes the trigger and Stammets falls back with a red stain blooming on his chest and Buster barking his fool head off

Will inhales deeply once, eyes closed, before lowering the gun. He keeps his eyes shut against the sight of his kill. The dogs are growling and snarling behind him, adding to the ringing in his ears.

“Everyone all right?” he asks loudly.

“... Yes,” Abi says, though she’s obviously shaken. She yelps, and Will feels his son’s small hand fisting into the leg of his jeans.

He lets his own hand fall to cradle the back of Lowell’s head. “You all right, pup?”

“Yeah, Daddy.”

Will nods. “All right. Let’s call nine-one-one.”

* * *

Hannibal has never truly felt this way before. His feelings about Murasaki were, of course, complicated, and he felt more for her than he had for anyone since Mischa.

His feelings for Will, however, are not complicated as much as _varied._ He is in awe, he is wildly curious, he is covetous, he is the smallest bit proud. If he weren’t a man far too dignified to do so, he’d say he has a crush on Will. As it is, he’ll call it a significant infatuation and leave it at that.

He, of course, keeps all traces of undue affection or interest off of his face during Will’s second psychological evaluation. Another meeting arranged and insisted upon by Jack Crawford. Will is clearly irked by the insistence, but not so much that he argued too strenuously against being here.

“It puts a strain on the psyche,” Hannibal says, “the soul, if we’re feeling poetic, to kill a man.” He wonders what Will’s soul would look like. “And here you are, having killed two in as many weeks.”

Will doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing. “Both of those ‘men’ were threats, and the second was a direct threat to my family.” He meets Hannibal’s eyes. “I’m not going to lose sleep over the likes of Hobbs and Stammets.”

Oh, no, Hannibal has never felt this way. The man in front of him, who empathizes with monsters and shows no remorse for his own kills, has completely enthralled him. He wants to know everything about Will Graham, wants to crack open his skull and watch every fascinating thought slide in and out of his brain. He wants to possess Will, feel his emotions and execute his actions. He wants Will Graham as he has wanted little else in all his time on Earth.

He smiles, warm and just a touch amused, and watches Will relax.

“Tell me, Will, how does that make you feel?”


	3. Chapter Three

“Over my dead body, Jack,” Will growls. It won’t properly travel through the phone, but the sound is vicious, animalistic. A predator defending his pack.

 _Christ._ Will has to calm down and he knows it. It’s pure dumb luck that Lowell and Abi are outside with the dogs and can’t hear him. All of the adrenaline, the deadly action he’s taken, and the old instincts guiding him lately have him being more of an asshole than usual. If only being an asshole was the only consequence of a loss of control for him.

_I’m going to have to start meditating again. Dammit, I hate meditation. Might be good for the kids, though._

“Will, I don’t like it any more than you do,” Jack lies. Will grinds his teeth to keep his anger in his mouth. _Definitely meditation._

“I have seven families - let me rephrase - _demanding_ that we find whatever’s left of their daughters. Abigail Hobbs is the only person who might know the truth.”

“Jack, I don’t know how much clearer I can be. You’re not speaking to Abigail without myself _and_ legal representation present. You’re not taking her back into that house where, and I can’t believe that I have to remind you of this, _both of her parents died.”_

“The only body I have is the one Hobbs didn’t eat. Seven bodies, Will. Seven girls.”

“And while I have the utmost sympathy for their families, there’s _one_ girl who I have to prioritize.”

“Her DNA is all over the slaughterhouse Hobbs used,” Jack says slowly, quietly. “She’s a possibility that we need to rule out.”

“Then you’ll find a different way to do it,” Will says firmly, _without_ growling. “She’s a _kid,_ Jack, and whether you like it or not, she’s under my protection. I’m her legal guardian and you do not have my permission to contact her in _any way.”_

Jack makes his own sound of frustration, not entirely unlike a growl. “We’re not done talking about this,” he snaps. The call ends before Will can reply.

Will takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out again in an explosive sigh. Without Jack there on the phone presenting an active threat to Abi, it’s all too easy to empathize with him. Jack is driven by justice, and it doesn’t matter to him that Abi’s so young, that she’s traumatized, that she was just doing what was needed to survive. He can also empathize with the families of the victims - if it had been Lowell, Will would raze the earth to find him, and to find his killer.

Of course, that might be more literal for him than it is for other parents.

Luckily for him, having Lowell has taught him how to be selfish, to cut empathies out at the root. His son, and now Abi, depend on him to put him first, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do just that.

 _Also_ fortuitous is the fact that Lowell’s peculiarities mean that Will has a lawyer he’s comfortable calling. Allison “call me Allie” Moreno doesn't typically deal with criminal law, but Will knows he can ask her to help Abi.

 _Over my dead body,_ he thinks darkly as the phone rings.

* * *

Later that night, after another fairly simple dinner of seasoned chicken, veggies, and mac and cheese (though Lowell doesn’t get to partake of the meat), Abi insists on helping Will with the dishes. It’s not that she’s particularly lazy or combative about housework, she took to her share of chores without a word of protest, in fact, but it still strikes him as out of the ordinary. He doesn’t say anything about it, though. He just hands her a towel and asks her to dry.

For all her cunning and keen survival instinct, Abi’s still a teenage girl. It only takes her a few silent minutes to speak.

“So, Lowell’s hearing is _really_ good,” she says, and it takes a beat for Will to connect the dots.

“He told you about Jack’s phone call.”

Her chin raises in a stubborn tilt. “Lowell shouldn’t get in trouble for telling me. It was _about_ me,” she says petulantly. It’s the most she’s sounded like a normal teenager (or what Will assumes a normal teenager would sound like, anyway) since he brought her home.

Though he had no intention of punishing Lowell, it’s not like he can help his sense of hearing, and they have more pressing behaviors to address, the show of budding sibling camaraderie warms him. He felt helpless to the voice screaming in his head that he _had_ to protect her that day in Minnesota. It’s nice to see that he made the right call.

“You’re right,” he says simply. “I should have talked to you about it.”

That knocks some of the wind out of her sails, but she still says, “I can do it.”

“I know you _can,”_ Will says carefully. “I just don’t think you _should.”_ He won’t fight her on it if she really wants to go back, but everything in him rebels at the idea.

“I don’t have anything to hide.”

It’s such a bald-faced lie that Will almost doesn’t know how to respond. Of course, it’s delivered quite well - a normal man might fall for it.

He takes a deep breath. “Abi, it’s not about having something to hide. The families of your father’s victims-” she flinches, and Will feels a flicker of regret before soldiering on, “-are going to want someone to blame. And even if Jack says that his only goal is to jog your memory, he wants the same thing.” He puts the fork he was holding down and turns to face her. She does the same.

“People have an overdeveloped sense of vengeance,” he says softly, sadly. “They’re going to want someone to burn, and they’re not going to care if you’re innocent. I will do everything in my power to prevent that from happening.”

A lot of emotions pass across Abi’s face, and tears start to well in her eyes. Will makes sure to keep his gaze locked with hers as he speaks again.

“I meant it, what I said to Jack. They’ll get to you over my dead body.”

He’s not surprised when she falls forward against his chest. He gathers her up and holds her close, unmindful of his still-damp hands. She starts to cry softly. It tears Will up inside and he starts to rock her gently from side to side,

A violent sob shakes her shoulders. She murmurs something, but she’s pressed too close to make it out.

“What was that?” he murmurs.

“I… I helped him.”

Will holds her tighter, letting his eyes fall closed. “Oh, Abi. I’m so sorry.”

“I knew what my father was. I knew what he did. I _knew.”_ She swallows hard, her throat clicking thickly. “I was the one who met the girls, talked to them. Laughed and joked. I found out where they lived, where they were going, when they’d be alone. Girls who looked like me. They could have been my friends, but I… I knew. It was them or me.”

Will is so fiercely glad that he shot Garrett Jacob Hobbs nine times, the bastard. “It’s okay, Abi, it’s okay.” He wrestles with himself for only a moment, unsure if it will help or hurt, before he decides on honestly. “Abi, I already knew.”

She jerks back a little to stare at him with wide eyes. _“What?”_

Will gives her space but doesn’t let her go. “I knew, I knew all along.”

“But how-”

Will smiles. “You know how Lowell is special? Let’s call it a family trait.”

Her face crumples. “You knew that I’m a monster.”

He cups her face tenderly. “No, you’re not. You’re a _victim._ You did what you had to do. It’s _not_ your fault and no one is going to lay a _goddamn finger_ on you, okay?” He kisses her forehead. “I’m gonna fix this, darlin’, don’t you doubt it for a second.”

The soft padding of little feet has them both looking up to watch Lowell make his way into the kitchen. He walks right to Abi and carefully bites at the hem of her t-shirt, red eyes wide and worried. Abi laughs wetly and bends down to lift the boy into her arms. She shows no hesitation in touching him, and he wraps his skinny arms around her neck and snuggles close.

“Daddy won’t let no one take you from us, Abi,” Lowell says softly.

“That’s right,” Will says as he pulls both of them into his arms. “Abi’s ours now, pup, and she’s not going anywhere.”

* * *

Hannibal supposes that the only way he would actually be satisfied with the progress of his and Will’s relationship is if Will had immediately asked to move himself and his little family into Hannibal’s homes. He does have the space, he would graciously admit, and he would secretly revel in the unfettered access to Will. He would get to have a more influential hand in the shaping and raising of Abigail’s inner predator, not to mention Will’s own darkness. He’d get to see if Will’s son, too, has anything truly interesting inside him.

It’s a lovely little fantasy, but it’s not to be, of course. Will is defensive of his family, viciously protective, and suspicious of any undue interest. Since every single iota of Hannibal’s interest is, indeed, undue, he must move slowly, carefully as he integrates himself into Will’s life. Not only to avoid spooking the man, but he must be exceedingly cautious not to make any mistakes that might reveal his darker nature. Will is exceptionally intelligent and observant - any slip-up could end the game early. It’s a risk, of course, but Hannibal has never been one to back down from a challenge.

So progress may be glacially slow when compared to how quickly he’d like it to go, but it is progress. Though it wasn’t required as much as emphatically recommended by Jack, Will agreed to continue their weekly “conversations.” It’s for one of these meetings that Will now arrives, hanging up his jacket and slumping into the chair across from Hannibal with an air of anger.

The fact that he’s even sitting in the chair instead of prowling around the office means that he’s quite occupied with something. Hannibal wonders if there will ever come a time when Will offers his problems to Hannibal freely instead of him having to ask.

“Something on your mind?”

The snarl that lifts Will’s upper lip is quite enchanting. “Jack.”

When nothing else comes forth, “And how is Uncle Jack?”

“Irritating.”

Hannibal bites back a sigh of his own. Really, Will is lucky that Hannibal is so increasingly fond of him. _Infuriating creature,_ he thinks warmly.

He, of course, lets none of this show on his face. “Will,” he says sternly.

Will groans and covers his face with his hands. “Sorry, sorry, I know,” he mutters. “Jack pissed me off, but I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

 _There he is._ “I accept your apology, though it is largely unnecessary, so long as you can see your way to telling me what Jack has done to upset you so.”

Another dark, aggressive expression crosses Will’s face. “He’s been… _Insistent_ on taking Abigail back to Minnesota.”

Hannibal is unsurprised, but he raises his eyebrows. “To what end?”

“He says it’s to ‘jog her memory,’ in case she knows something she doesn’t know she knows.”

“You think he has another reason, I presume?”

Will snorts. “He thinks she had something to do with her father’s murderers. He’s just looking for someone to punish because I already punished Garrett Jacob Hobbs.”

“You think Jack would prosecute an innocent child?”

“I don’t think he thinks she’s innocent.

There are several things Hannibal could say to that. He could argue with Will and align the two of them against Jack. He could put on a show of being shocked and disgusted. He could make it seem as if the idea of Abigail being an accomplice has just now occurred to him.

As it so often does, curiosity wins out.

“Is he wrong?” he asks softly, evenly. “Dear Abigail isn’t _entirely_ innocent of her father’s crimes, is she?”

Will gives him a flat, irritated look that Hannibal is immediately enamored with. “Yes, she is. Abi may have had to do some less than savory things to survive, but she’s not evil. Not like the Shrike.” Will sits forward, eyes never leaving Hannibal’s. “I know evil, what it looks like draped across someone’s shoulders, what it tastes like when it coats the back of your throat, how it dances through the air like a song. I know evil, and Abigail Hobbs is _not,_ Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal wonders if this is what it’s like to fall in love with someone. “A convincing argument,” he says, and is only somewhat surprised to hear how hoarse his voice is. “And I fear I must insist on you calling me Hannibal.”

Whatever intent, protective, captivating anger that seemed to overtake Will now flows away just as easily. Hannibal wants to swallow him whole, if no other reason than the vain hope that he might be able to understand him afterward.

Will smiles, a light, crooked thing. “Hannibal, huh? All right.” He settles back into his chair, still agitated, but less so now. Lighter, almost.

“At the risk of upsetting you again, how is Abigail?”

Will smiles genuinely now. It’s not quite as warm when it’s Lowell he’s talking about, but it’s getting there.

“She’s doing great. She and Lowell are getting closer every day, and she takes to his peculiarities well. Her therapy is going well, too. She should be ready to go back to school soon, though we’ve decided to enroll her in online classes.”

“It sounds like you’ve done your best to make the transition an easy one for her.”

Will shrugs. “I have. It’s not all smooth. She has nightmares, traumas. The therapy helps with the latter, hot cocoa late at night helps with the former. And she’s great, she really is, already part of the family, but there’s some… Awkwardness.”

Hannibal cocks a brow. “Awkwardness?”

A faint dusting of pink graces Will’s cheeks. Hannibal would like to feel it against his teeth, his tongue. “Well, she _is_ a teenage girl. I haven’t had time to go back up and get her stuff, clothes and books and all that. We’ve picked up the, ah, essentials, but she doesn’t want all new clothes, so she’s mostly been wearing my hand-me-downs, so it’s been… Kind of weird.”

Ah, something he can _use,_ finally. Hannibal sits forward and clasps his hands together. “Will,” he says slowly, “I’d like to offer my help.”

Will smiles. “Gonna drive up to Minnesota between patients and consulting with the FBI, Doc, uh, Hannibal?” That delicious blush deepens.

Hannibal smiles back. “No, but I’d like to hire a company to pack and ship Abigail’s belongings to you.”

Will stiffens. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

It’s the first real sign of discomfort Will has shown since the few minutes after he killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs. _What a confounding thing you are._

“You didn’t ask. I offered.”

Will fidgets, almost _squirms._ Hannibal is unbearably intrigued.

“Hannibal, it would be- The money-”

 _Ah._ Though Hannibal rarely has to think about money, he supposes raising two children and seven dogs on a teacher’s salary isn’t the most comfortable lifestyle. He wonders briefly if that contributes to the plaid and flannels that have made up Will’s wardrobe so far as he has seen, then quickly dismisses the idea. Will is unapologetic about his comfort, and Hannibal doubts money has much to do with that at all.

“Will,” he interrupts, something he’d normally never engage in, but a necessary signal of a level of comfort with one another, “please. Money is not now and seldom ever has been a concern for me.” What he wouldn’t give to be able to touch Will now, but he must move slowly there, so slowly. Will does not have the demeanor of someone who’s comfortable with casual touch, and it wouldn’t do at all to chase him off now.

Will is still frowning. “Okay, but I-”

“Please,” Hannibal says, soft and more pleading than he’d ever allow to show with anyone else. “We share these feelings of responsibility for Abigail’s well-being, if you’ll recall. I can’t stand idly aside and watch you carry these obligations alone. Not while I can help.” When Will still looks hesitant, he asks again. “Please, Will.”

After a still moment that has Hannibal wondering if he’s overplayed his hand, Will nods tersely, and Hannibal has woven another thread in the web slowly drawing them together.

* * *

Will is still chewing on the act of swallowing his pride to agree to let Hannibal take over the task of getting Abigail’s things shipped to Wolf Trap when he pulls into the driveway next to Mikey’s little Toyota.

Mikey opens the door as Will gets to the stairs and lets the dogs swarm out. Mikey has Lowell perched on their hip and is holding the boy awkwardly so he can chew on their sleeve.

“Hey, Mr. Graham,” Mikey greets easily. “Good day?”

“It was all right. Got some good news. How were things here?”

Mikey grins, revealing slightly crooked teeth that somehow manage to be charming. “Great! Everyone’s done with homework from therapy and school, we got dinner and chores done with minimal fuss, then watched movies 'till now. And the lil’ monster,” they squeeze Lowell for emphasis, to which he growls playfully, “only ate about a dozen sour gummy worms before brushing his teeth.”

Lowell releases the sleeve in his mouth and leans toward Will until he comes up the stairs the rest of the way to take him. “Thanks, Mikey,” he says sincerely. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Mikey blushes. They’re in their early twenties, working on getting a degree in literature. From what Will can glean, both from his natural empathy (not his _other_ instincts, Mikey is quite harmless) and what they’ve told him, they want to write children’s books. He thinks they’ll be very, very good at it.

Best of all, they’ve never once balked at any of the weirder shit that Lowell does. Bringing reconstructed bird skeletons inside, knowing things he shouldn’t, the growling and biting and skulking, Mikey’s been taking it in stride since the day they showed up to the interview for the babysitter position. They’re the only reason Will was ever able to help on the Shrike case.

“Aw, you know I love Lowell,” they say, fidgeting with the hem of their oversized sweatshirt as they lead the way back into the house. “And Abi’s great, too. I shouldn’t even let you pay me to come hang out here.” They shoot a knowing look over their shoulder. “Not that I think I’ll be needed much longer.”

It’s true that with Abi and Lowell getting along better every day, Will won’t be asking Mikey to come babysit quite as often.

“Maybe not needed,” he concedes, “but always welcome.”

Their blush darkens, but they still roll their eyes. “Sap,” they accuse fondly.

Will laughs and Lowell nuzzles into his neck. The three of them enter the living room where Abigail and Harley are sprawled out on the couch, some dramatic TV show playing on the screen. She’s wearing one of his old t-shirts and he feels another pang of regret. It’s eased when she looks up and smiles at all of them.

“Welcome home,” she says softly.

“Hey, darlin’. Everything all right?”

She nods, already getting absorbed in her show again, as dismissive as any normal teenager when their parental unit arrives home. Will smiles even wider.

“Lowell,” Mikey says abruptly, “go cuddle with Abi and Harley for a sec, okay? I gotta talk to your dad.”

Lowell frowns. “‘Bout what?”

“Grown-up stuff, kiddo.”

Lowell looks at Mikey for a very drawn-out second, which Mikey meets evenly, before shrugging and wiggling down. Abi doesn’t look away from the TV, just makes room on the couch for the pup, then for Buster who hops on, too.

Will follows Mikey into the kitchen until the two of them are out of earshot. “What’s wrong?”

Mikey shrugs, eyes glued to where the kids are twisted up around each other now. "I don’t know if anything is ‘wrong,’ necessarily, it’s just…” A deep breath. “There’s this guy who’s been hanging around town. Carol from the bank _and_ Beth from the supermarket text me while I was here about him. They said…” Mikey finally meets Will’s gaze, their hazel eyes worried and scared. “They said he’s been asking about Abi.”

Any vague thoughts he was entertaining about using his status as an FBI agent to scare off some punk bothering Mikey and their friends disappear beneath the scarlet weight of fury that descends upon him. _Why_ does this keep happening? Who could possibly be after them now? What could anyone want with Abigail?

He takes a deep breath, then another. Mikey watches him, worried but not wary. They know he’d never lay a finger on them. 

“Thank you for letting me know.”

They nod quickly. “Of course. And Carol and Beth didn’t say anything to him. Not that they know much, but they know I babysit Lowell and that you brought Abi home.”

Will smiles. It feels strained, but it’s what he’s got, and it gets Mikey to relax a bit. “It’s okay,” he says. “I appreciate it. Let me get your money and walk you to your car, okay? I know finals are coming up, you should rest.”

As he goes to do just that, his mind spins with possibilities, uneasy and alert.

* * *

Lowell’s eyes open to pitch-black darkness. Winston is lying on the bed at his feet, also awake now. Lowell does not have the luxury of not knowing what woke him.

**_an intruder, hostile, unwelcome, angry, hurt, sneaking, intruder_ **

All of the dogs are awake, but Daddy and Abi are still asleep. Lowell climbs out of bed, pulls his black sleep shirt and pants to rights, and silently leaves his bedroom on bare feet. Winston follows loyally.

When he gets downstairs, the dogs are at attention, but none of them are growling yet. The intruder hasn’t made it close enough to the house to sound the alarm.

**_he won’t_ **

Lowell has to stand on tippy toes to unlock the deadbolt, but he manages. He eases the door open and steps out into the chilly night. The cold has little effect on him.

**_nicholas boyle_ **

Nicholas 

**_intruder_ **

Boyle is creeping through the woods toward their house. He’s nervous and agitated like Daddy sometimes gets when he has a student not do very good on a test. As he passes by a snake, it tells Lowell that he stinks of sweat and unwashed flesh. Countless spiders tell him that Nicholas’ movements are jerky and strange.

**_he has no plan beyond confrontation, he plans to confront abigail, he thinks she helped her father murder his sister_ **

Lowell frowns. That will upset Abi. She has some Darkness in her, but not like that. Not like him and Daddy, and what her Daddy had. She fears that she’s like that, even though Lowell knows she isn’t.

He considers killing Nicholas

**_intruder_ **

Boyle, but knows that his Daddy would be disappointed in him. Lowell knows that he’s a difficult being to raise, and that his Daddy knew better than most what he was getting when he found Lowell, but he loves his Daddy very much. His Daddy gives him hugs and kisses and never yells when Lowell catches a little bit of skin when he bites at his shirts. Lowell loves his Daddy, and he _hates_ when his Daddy is disappointed in him.

So he won’t kill him, but that by no means leaves Lowell with nothing to defend himself and his home.

He closes his eyes, pulls forth his favorite nightmares, and _sendspushes_ them.

_a wendigo, blacker than black, seven feet tall with antlers that touch the sky, it appears in front of the intruder, it is amused when he balks and cries out in fear_

_a ravenstag, massive and powerful, steps out of the wood as the intruder attempts to flee, he stumbles and falls back, screaming as the ravenstag gores one leg, low enough not to kill him_

_darkness covers the intruder, he sees only flashes of movement, he does his vest to run away from them_

Lowell bids his nightmares to herd Nicholas

**_intruder_ **

Boyle back to town. He doubts the man’s sanity will last the journey, but that’s not really bothersome to Lowell. He shouldn’t have come after Abi.

**_abigail hobbs is ours_ **

Satisfied with the night’s work, Lowell goes back inside. Winston and Jack help prop him up enough that he can lock the deadbolt. He considers going back to his own bed but rejects the idea almost at once. Instead, he goes all the way down the hall to his Daddy’s room.

Zoe is right behind him when he opens the door, and he lets her follow inside before he closes it. She’s getting old, Daddy says, and she gets cold easily. He helps her up onto Daddy’s bed before clambering up himself.

Daddy doesn’t wake up all the way, but he stirs and murmurs, “Pup? Y’okay?”

“Yeah, Daddy. I’m cold.”

Daddy wraps him up tight, then opens one eye enough to give Zoe the stink eye before wrapping her up, too. Lowell nuzzles into Daddy’s warmth, his goodness, his control, and sleep starts to overtake him again.

“I’ve gotcha, pup. Go back to sleep.”

**_abigail hobbs and will graham belong to me_ **

* * *

Will supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when he gets a call only two days later that Abi’s things will be arriving that weekend. Hannibal is efficient to a fault. He probably shouldn’t be surprised, either, that Hannibal also had the whole house packed up, things that weren’t Abi’s put into long-term storage, and hired a professional cleaning company to clean the whole place from top to bottom.

Will has never been rich. He’s well set up, of course, with the royalties from the monographs still coming in regularly to pad his teacher’s salary, and now his consultant fee (and wasn’t _that_ a fun conversation), but not _rich._ Certainly not “hire a moving crew” rich. He tries not to be bothered by the show of money. Either Hannibal genuinely doesn’t realize how obnoxious (even if it’s very much appreciated) this is, or he’s trying to get under WIll’s skin. No matter which it is, reacting poorly won’t help anyone, and it might make Abi uncomfortable.

Instead, he calls Mikey to take Lowell for the day so the pup doesn’t freak the movers out, shows them where Abi’s room is when they arrive, and sets the two of them up with mugs of hot cocoa and a big blanket to snuggle up under on the front porch swing while they watch the movers work. The dogs are well-trained enough to stay out of the way. Will and Abi shamelessly ogle the moving men, sharing secret smiles and nudging one another under the blanket.

Will’s phone rings and he answers it without looking. “This is Will.”

“Tell me this wasn’t you,” Jack growls.

“It wasn’t me,” Will says easily, obediently.

“God _dammit,_ Will.”

“What happened, Jack?”

 _“Why is the Hobbs house cleaned out?!”_ Jack shouts, and Will rolls his eyes.

“Because Abigail needed clothes?”

“It’s an active crime scene!”

“It’s not _that_ active, Jack. I shot the bad guy and saved the girl, remember?” He winks at Abi. She leans into his side with a smile.

“Thin ice, Graham,” Jack snarls. “I did _not_ just hear that.”

Will rolls his eyes again. “What do you want from me, Jack? She needed her stuff. I mentioned it to Hannibal and he told me he’d look into it. I’m certain he went through the appropriate channels. The house wouldn’t have been opened to him if it was still considered evidence.”

Jack grumbles indistinctly and hangs up, and Will knows he’s right. The only person in the FBI that doesn’t want the Shrike case closed so it can fade from memory is Jack himself. And while Will feels for the families of the victims, he does, they’re not getting through him to get to _his_ kid. This is for the best on all levels, really.

His phone rings again.

“I’m not going to apologize for this,” he snaps.

“Well,” Alana Bloom drawls, _“someone’s_ in a good mood.”

Will relaxes and smiles. “Alana, hi. I’m sorry.”

“I’m honored.”

“I’m sure,” he says dryly.

“I was calling to check on you, actually. You’ve been through a lot and we haven’t had the chance to catch up for a while.”

Alana’s unfailing and steadfast kindness is what makes her one of Will’s favorite people. “You wanna see for yourself? You can come to dinner tonight. Bring that shitty hipster beer. You can meet Abi, and I know Lowell will want to see you.”

He hears the smile in her voice. “That sounds great! I’m there.”

* * *

Will has been friends with Alana Bloom for a long time. She occasionally guest speaks in any number of psychology classes at Quantico and has consulted on a case or two. They hit it off pretty much right away.

He thinks if he wasn’t who he really is and if he didn’t have Lowell, it would be very easy to be in love with Alana. Of course, if he wasn’t who he was and he didn’t have Lowell, he’d probably be too bugshit crazy to suit her. Funny how it works out that way. Regardless, he treasures her easy, uncomplicated friendship. 

Most importantly, she likes his super weird kid.

She gets there while Will is still cooking. Abi comes down to introduce herself and the two of them chat. It only takes minutes before Alana is offering her help with unpacking and sorting her things, which Abi gratefully accepts. Will’s glad - he knows there are some things Abi doesn’t feel comfortable sharing with him, and if she needs a strong female influence, Alana is an excellent place to start. Not to mention that he’s fairly awful at decorating. There are fishing prints in the kitchen, for fuck’s sake.

He contentedly cooks by himself until dinner is done. He calls Abi down and Lowell inside from where he’s been playing with Ellie and Buster to wash up for dinner. He hands Alana a hipster beer and starts setting the table.

“She’s great, Will," she says sincerely as she helps. “And you’re doing a good job.”

He feels the back of his neck heat up in a blush. “I just want to give her a chance, y’know?”

“And your savior complex has nothing to do with it,” she says, the warm teasing in her voice taking out any sting the words may have had.

He opens his mouth with something that would definitely be wittier than, “nuh-uh,” but Lowell chooses that moment to open the back door.

His beloved son has dirt smeared all over his face and clothes, which is pretty par for the course. What is _not_ par for the course is the huge snake wrapped around his skinny torso. Its rattle is down near his hip, rattling softly as they step into the house, and its upper body is wrapped around Lowell’s right arm so its head rests in his palm.

Alana stiffens infinitesimally, but she rallies fast, which Will appreciates about her. He doesn’t know how she rationalizes some of Lowell’s more outlandish behavior to herself, but he loves her for it.

“Your friend is very handsome," she’s saying with a smile, “but wouldn’t he be happier outside?”

Will, who is wise to his son’s shit-starting ways, hits Lowell with a stern look. “No snakes in the house, pup. You know that.”

Lowell scrunches his nose up in displeasure. He doesn’t really understand why his animal friends _(familiars)_ can’t come into the house, but he respects Will’s rules. Most of the time, anyway.

“Sorry, Daddy. Sorry, Alana.”

Alana smiles kindly. “It’s okay, Lowell.”

“Put him back outside where Buster won’t decide to fight him, then come back in and wash up for dinner.”

“Okay.” Lowell darts back outside.

Alana presses a hand to her chest. “Whew, he got me with that one. Scared the shit out of me.”

Will grins despite himself. “Yeah, he does that.”

* * *

After a relatively peaceful meal, Abi is reading aloud to Lowell in the living room and Alana is helping Will clean up.

“So,” he says after five full minutes of trying to think of an appropriate opening and failing miserably, “you know Dr. Lecter pretty well, then?”

Hannibal came up as a topic at dinner. Abi all but gushed about him while Will grudgingly admitted that he could probably now be classified as a friend. Alana had smirked knowingly and Lowell had (thankfully) stayed invested in his pasta sauce and noodles.

Alana smiles again, but gracefully says, “I do, yeah. He was my mentor at Johns Hopkins.”

Will nods as he scrubs at the pot. “Tell me about him?” He hopes he comes off as smooth, but the way Alana’s eyes sparkle says that he missed the mark.

“Hannibal is… A man unto himself. He’s very generous. He’s also incredibly cultured, I think he speaks something like five languages fluently. He expects the best for and from himself and the people he cares about, who are very few. He’s always, _always_ the smartest person in the room.” She shoots him a sly look. “Or he was, until he started hanging out with you.”

Will nods and blushes at the compliment. She’s not really telling him anything he doesn’t already know. Less than, even, since Alana can’t see into men’s hearts like Will can.

_Who are you, Dr. Lecter?_


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TRIGGER WARNING:** Arachnophobia warning, y'all. There be spiders up ahead.

Once Abigail’s belongings arrive, things _finally_ settle down a little bit, and they fall into a simple routine. Will is exceedingly grateful for the chance to rest. The kind of excitement they’ve been getting lately tests him and the pup beyond comfort. There’s a _reason_ he and Lowell stuck to a schedule.

They get back to one now. Abi doesn’t particularly want to go back to the scrutiny and expectations of regular high school yet, and Will doesn’t live close to one, anyway. She enrolls in a virtual school, though, and is doing well so far. Especially with the brand new laptop Hannibal snuck in with the rest of her stuff. She still has nightmares and days when she’s silent more than she speaks, but so do they all. She never shies away from Lowell’s violent way of affection, though, and when she’s feeling extra vulnerable, she seeks Will out for a hug, or simply to lean against him and let him hold her up. Most often, she’s vibrant and smart as hell, with a dark sense of humor that meshes seamlessly with Will’s.

Lowell, despite the stressful few weeks and significant changes their little family has undergone, doesn’t seem to negatively act out at all. Well, any more than usual. He tries to sneak in a bird skeleton one night, and on another Will finds Lowell’s bedroom covered in ancient writing that he’s forgotten how to read, but that kind of thing is fairly standard. It makes him suspicious that something has happened that he’s not aware of, but there are no dead bodies and no missing persons, so he lets it go. Lowell takes to Abi almost right away, too. Though Will is who he still seeks out for comfort, Abi has become an acceptable substitute, and if Lowell catches a little bit of her skin when he bites at her shirt, he apologizes immediately.

Will tells Hanniball all of this (well… _most_ of it) as they continue their weekly conversations. When they’re not discussing work, which happens less and less frequently, they talk about the kids. Hannibal asks about them often, which warms Will even though it’s a fairly obvious ploy.

He asks about Will himself just as often, though, and Will demands information in return (“Quid pro quo, Dr. Lecter.” A beat, then, “Very well, Professor Graham.”). They talk about dogs, opera, cooking, and fishing. They always go over their allotted hour and Will always has a warm, pleasantly heavy feeling in his chest when he leaves Baltimore. 

It would be enough, if Will was a normal man, to have him seriously entertaining thoughts (fantasies) of a relationship, of domesticity. As it is, he knows that Hannibal is still playing _some_ sort of game, and he’s far too curious about that to hurry them along to the next step of this convoluted courtship.

He has a feeling they’ll have time.

* * *

Hannibal sits in his study. It’s late and Will is long departed for the night. He cradles a glass of deep red wine, a suitable companion to his contemplation.

_Will Graham._

A particularly lovely individual, if a bit scruffy to fit Hannibal’s usual preferences. He has a classically lovely face, however, with chocolate curls that frame eyes that defy description. He makes Hannibal’s fingers ache for pencil and paper, possibly charcoal, and he may even like to capture Will in oils, too, though he hasn’t painted since he was in medical school. Will’s beauty, of course, doesn’t explain the almost vicious fascination Hannibal has with him, but Hannibal stopped questioning himself years ago.

And really, there’s so _much_ to admire about Will, is it any wonder he’s caught Hannibal’s eye? A man passionate about his work, both teaching and catching killers. A man who manages to balance that passion, and his inner darkness to boot, with his innate need to nurture, protect. A father who sought out fatherhood on his own, now a father of two, and the leader of a pack of dogs. Seemingly submissive enough to avoid making prolonged eye contact, but strong enough to stand up to a bulldozer like Jack. A man who collects strays, then turns around and kills to protect them. 

No, no, he was always going to be enchanted with this confounding creature. While Will’s inherent resistance to predictability is, of course, one of the many traits that make him such a delight to observe, Hannibal finds himself… Stymied.

What, precisely, is staying Will’s hand? Hannibal is certain that he’s not imagining the growing warmth and affection between them. Caution, of course, would make sense coming from any potential partner with children. Parents are inherently wary, but Hannibal has not only shown himself to be a capable provider, but he has an obvious emotional attachment to one of Will’s charges.

So what keeps Will at arm’s length? It’s not heterosexuality, Hannibal knows when he’s being admired. It’s not that Hannibal has a problem with children, he’s made that more than clear. It’s not, either, that he will add to those lives that Will is responsible for. 

Hannibal wonders, for the briefest moment, if that marvelous empathy Will is so known for in psychiatric circles has allowed him to see through what Bedelia calls Hannibal’s “person suit.” He dismisses the idea quickly.

If Will knew what Hannibal truly is, he would have acted on it.

* * *

Will stares at the crime scene photos spread across several tables in a conference room at Quantico. His eyes burn and his shoulders ache, but he refuses to stop. He knows that Alana and Beverly are concerned, but Jack is also spectacularly driven to solve this case, moreso than usual. Will would wonder why if this killer’s design didn’t cover his vision in a fine mist of enraged red.

Jack, Alana, and Beverly are against the far wall. Will starts at one end of the table, lets the pendulum in his mind swing (he has to rely harder on his natural empathy and deduction now - he’s not there to read the darkness at the scene), and _stalks_ down the room.

“The table has been set. Family dinner. _I_ wasn’t invited. I take my seat at the empty plate. My seat. My place setting, next to Mrs. Turner. I am the guest of honor.”

The next series of pictures depict the rest of the family. Will sees them alive. They’re already long dead.

“No one has taken a bite of their dinner, except the youngest.” His head snaps to the right and he mutters, as a stereotypical parent would to their stereotypical child, “Unless you eat your growing foods, you won’t get any dessert.” In his mind’s eye, the girl pops a piece of broccoli into her mouth. Satisfied, Willthekiller moves on.

“No one is bound. No one leaves the table. All afraid to move. Even the little ones behaved themselves.” Will tries to wink the youngest to reassure her, but the killer is in control now, and he’s too… Too _something_ to allow it. It wouldn’t help, anyway. “I brought my own family to this home invasion, controlling the Turners with threats of violence.”

Another series of pictures. He’s almost to the trio at the end of the room. Hopefully, he’s Will again by the time he gets to them.

“Threats that turn into action.”

Three guns fire at once. Will’s ears ring.

“The Turner family is executed simultaneously, with the exception of Mrs. Turner, who dies last. This is my design.”

The last photo. A plain but pretty woman, eyes wide open.

“I shoot Mrs. Turner, gun against the canvas of her forehead. I look her directly in the eye when I pull the trigger.”

As Mrs. Turner dies, Willthekiller is overcome with… _Something._ Will, _just_ Will, starts to extricate himself from it, from the act and from the killer’s ebony miasma of emotion.

“What do you see, Will?” Jack asks, reliable in his dogged pursuit of Will’s insights, even if he’s throwing himself harder into this case than is the norm.

This time, Will doesn’t mind. “Family values,” he spits, incensed. Another killer being careless with family, with _children._ Will probably shouldn’t be on this case.

“Whose family values?” Jack asks. Will doesn’t have an answer.

* * *

Will wishes absently that he’d brought his coat with him to the morgue, but his anger is bright enough to keep him warm, anyway.

Jack stands next to him. As Will watches Beverly, Price, and Zeller process the bodies and discuss the scene, Jack si flipping through a file of photos.

“Karen and Roger Turner. Childhood sweethearts. Owned a successful real estate business. Pillars of the community. Three children.”

Will stares at the four bodies with a frown. There’s something there, something crucial that he’s missing. “Minus one.”

Jack grunts. “A son, Jesse, disappeared last year. Last confirmed sighting had him boarding an RV at a rest area on Route forty-seven. Possible runaway, probably abduction.”

“Or both.”

“Hundreds of tips, but not a single one held up past lunchtime.” Jack snaps the folder closed. “When it rains misery, it pours.”

“Any signs of forced entry?”

“Nothing,” Beverly answers. “It was all sealed up tight.”

“They probably rang the doorbell.” Disgust colors Jack’s tone, overlaying whatever else he’s got going on.

“We had bullet holes on the upper sections of wall and ceiling,” Beverly offers.

Zeller walks around the tables with a report in hand. He’s been prickly all day, but Will doesn’t care. On one of the office days he doesn’t have classes, the morgue isn’t really his ideal place to be, either. That, along with whatever this killer’s got going on _and_ Will’s own fury at another family destroyed, all come together to make Will unable to actually give a fuck if Zeller has a problem with him today.

Fortunately, the man hands Will the report with no snark. “Those elevated termination points match what I see on these bodies. Angled cranial impacts coupled with acute exit wounds and conical spray. The shooter was firing from low to high, probably crouched.”

“Or maybe they were Hobbits,” Price chirps.

The world tilts, frame and camera in his mind adjusting just enough for Will to see clearly. He turns to look at the family photo clipped to the front of the file in Jack’s hand.

“All of the victims have defensive wounds except Mrs. Turner,” he murmurs. His voice is unnaturally loud in his ears. “There was… Acceptance in her body position. Forgiveness, even.” He looks up to meet Jack’s eyes, where terrible understanding is dawning.

“What kind of victim forgives her killer at the moment of her death?”

“A mother.”

* * *

“I need you on this.”

Will is in his minuscule office, packing away his things. He doesn’t look up at Jack. “No, you don’t, and even if you did, you can’t have me.”

“Will-”

Will slams his briefcase, almost as seldomly used as his office, closed, cutting Jack off. “I can’t do this one, Jack. I can’t do another family killer. It fucks with me too much. It took _weeks_ to get Garret Jacob Hobbs out of my head. I can’t have someone else taking up residence.”

“That’s what Dr. Lecter is for. To keep your head empty of killers.”

If Will wasn’t so peeved, he’d struggle not to laugh out loud. _If only you knew._

“Hannibal is great, but he’s not _actually_ my psychiatrist, nor do I want him to be. No, Jack, I’m out. Call Alana, I’ll ask her to help you in my place.” He frowns. “As long as you don’t take her into the field. I don’t want her to be hurt.”

Jack’s face could be carved from stone. Very angry stone. “You’re not in charge of where I take my consultants, Graham.”

Jack’s anger, while expected, is a little more than the situation warrants. Will wonders what’s going on, but he can’t help until he knows he’s off the Turner case.

Even so, he curbs the scathing retort sitting on his tongue.

“Well, I’m in charge of this one, and I can’t be on this case. If it wasn’t for Lowell and Abi, maybe, but my head _has_ to be a safe place for the kids and I.” Will makes his way out, scooting by Jack’s unmoving form. He softens, if only an iota.

“Call Alana, Jack. She’s just as good as I am. Better, even - she won’t shoot anyone.”

* * *

Two weeks of dodging Jack’s calls and Alana assuring him that she’s got the case under control later, Will sits in the parking lot in front of Quantico with Lowell in the backseat. His son’s backpack is in his lap and he’s glaring down at his black sneakers, never a fan of shoes regardless of their necessity.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” he says for probably the fourth time.

Lowell stops trying to blow his shoes up with his mind (small favors that he can’t) and looks up at Will. “It’s okay, Daddy. I’ll be good.”

There’s a teacher in-service day at Lowell’s school. If Mikey didn’t have a final today and Abigail didn’t have in-person group therapy, it wouldn’t be a problem. It’s not _really_ a problem, anyway, Lowell has sat in on Will’s classes before. In his backpack are coloring books, crayons, a pack of sour gummy words (Will will regret that later, he thinks), a couple of chapter books, and headphones for when lectures are particularly graphic, if only to keep up appearances. Will has impressed how important his job is, how _smart_ and _observant_ his coworkers are, so Lowell is _very_ well-behaved here.

It’s these times, though, that make Will feel bad that he doesn’t have anyone else for Lowell. Though they’ve done pretty well, just the two of them against the world, three now that they have Abigail. It would just be nice for them, maybe, if Will had an adult partner to lean on for this kind of thing.

Maroon eyes and crooked teeth flash in his mind before he can stop himself.

He ignores his subconscious and smiles at his son. “I know you will, pup. Come on, let’s go in.”

* * *

Will watches with a hint of trepidation as the students from his first class file out and Beverly Katz wades through them to come in. He has a feeling he knows what she’s here for.

She does have a thick folder in her hand, but her smile is bright when she asks, “Woah, who’s this?”

Will looks down to where Lowell is standing next to his desk now, hands pressed to his belly and clasped loosely around something.

“Beverly Katz, meet Lowell Graham. He’s with me today.”

Beverly pushes the folder into Will’s chest. He barely catches it in time to keep from falling. “Crime scene reports from the new case, calling him the Angel Maker,” she says as she crouches to meet Lowell’s eyes and holds a hand out to shake. “Hi, Lowell. Nice to meet you.”

Lowell stares at her hand blankly. “Nice to meet you, too,” he says. He looks down at his own hands. “I can’t shake your hand right now.”

Will frowns. “Pup.”

Beverly ignores him, which he should probably be used to. “It’s okay, kiddo. Any reason why?”

“The spiders came to me,” Lowell says like it’s a perfectly normal thing to say.

Will should have more faith in his colleagues, though. Not only are they by and large good, understanding people, but everyone who works in crime scene forensics is a little twisted. 

Beverly’s eyes light up. “Yeah? Can I see?”

Lowell opens his hands to reveal four spiders in his pale little palm. They’re entirely still and seem to look at Beverly with even, casually dangerous stares. Will hopes she doesn’t notice.

His anxieties dissipate when she _coos._ “That’s pretty cool, kiddo. Did you find them in the corners of your dad’s classroom?” She leans forward and whispers conspiratorily. “He should probably dust once in a while.”

Lowell frowns thoughtfully. “No, they came to me.”

One awkward beat passes before Beverly rallies. “Even better,” she says with a nod. It warms Will’s heart a little to see her try so hard not to react to Lowell’s obvious strangeness.

Then Lowell lets out a giggle. “It _is_ dusty in here, Daddy.”

Beverly barks out a laugh as she stands and Will groans. “All right, all right, gang up on Daddy time is over.” Lowell giggles again and Will shares a grin with Beverly over the boy’s head. He taps the folder with a finger. “I’ll take a look at these when I get a chance. And…” He feels a blush heat his cheeks. “Y’know, thanks.”

Lowell doesn’t often meet new people, and less often do they seem to like him. Even Alana took a lot of time and a little bit of coaching from Will to warm up to Lowell. That Beverly came in here with her blatant friendliness and aimed it at his son… Well, it means a lot to Will.

She seems to hear all of this without him having to say it. She grins and shrugs. “I’ve got nieces and nephews. All kids are weird. At least he’s polite.”

Will looks down at Lowell, who’s looking back up at him brightly. The spiders are looking at him, too.

“We struggle with biting sometimes,” he admits as he runs idle fingers through Lowell’s straight hair.

Beverly snorts. “Who among us doesn’t.”

Lowell bares his teeth at her in a grin.

* * *

This time, Will actively frowns as his students leave and Jack Crawford leads a lovely woman into his classroom after his second class of the day.

 _It’s like Grand Central Station in here,_ he thinks resentfully. And on a day he has Lowell.

“Will,” Jack says genially. “Have you met my wife, Bella?”

Jack knows damn well that Will hasn’t, but he smiles and shakes her hand regardless. “I haven’t, no. Will Graham, ma’am, and this is my son, Lowell.”

Bella lights up and bends down a bit. “Pleased to meet you, Lowell.”

“I can’t shake your hand,” Lowell says. He looks down. “The spiders came to me.”

Before Will can scold him, one of said spiders chooses that moment to crawl from between Lowell’s fingers and onto his hand. Bella freezes and her face becomes a familiar mask of someone who’s horrified, but who doesn’t want to offend Will or hurt Lowell. It’s better than openly recoiling, but only just.

“That’s nice,” she says rather faintly. She straightens and while she doesn’t step away from Lowell, it’s clear that she wants to.

Will doesn’t really blame Bella, necessarily. Lowell is unsettling at best and downright frightening at worst. Even knowing what Lowell is, however, it never gets easier to see people be afraid of his son.

Jack visibly decides to ignore the little drama playing out in front of him.

“Have you had a chance to look at the-”

“No,” Will says, exasperated. “Jack, I got the reports an hour ago, and I’m not cancelling class for a case I’m not even officially consulting on yet.”

Jack’s face darkens. “Will-”

God dammit, this doesn’t make _sense._ Jack’s always been pushy, but this is beyond the pale. What is it about this case? About the last several cases? Sure, the Shrike’s timeline between victims was short, but a minuscule cooling down period can’t be the only thing pushing Jack. He’s normally not _this_ unwilling to accept defeat.

Before Will can get angry, though, there’s a tug at his sleeve. When he looks down, Lowell has clenched the flannel between his teeth and is muttering darkly. His eyes dart over each of the adults in the room. The spiders have hidden in his hands again.

“Sorry,” Will says, looking back up at the Crawfords, “we’re, uh, we’re working on biting.”

Bella’s face inexplicably softens a little, but Jack’s frown is as heavy as ever.

“Whatever,” he says gruffly. He waves a hand. “Just get me your thoughts as soon as possible.”

Will sighs. “Sure, Jack.”

Jack nods decisively, then offers his arm to Bella, who takes it with a tight smile. There’s tension between them that Will can’t see the cause of. They leave without looking back. The awkwardness left in their wake is heavy.

Lowell tugs at his sleeve again and Will looks down.

“Daddy,” Lowell says insistently after he’s released Will’s shirt.

“Yeah, pup?”

“That lady-”

“Bella, you know her name is Bella.”

“Mhm, Bella. She’s real sick, Daddy.”

Will frowns. “What do you mean?”

“She’s gonna die soon. Her lungs are sick. ‘S slow, she doesn’t want the medicine.”

Will thinks for a moment, then it clicks. “Cancer, maybe? Lung cancer, and she doesn’t want the treatment?”

“Mhm,” Lowell hums, once more distracted by the spiders in his hands. For all the world like any other kid and not like he just proclaimed a stranger’s imminent demise.

Will rolls his eyes but leans down to kiss the top of the pup’s head. “Thank you for not telling _them_ that.”

Lowell just hums again. Will sighs.

* * *

It’s not that he’s _impatient,_ Hannibal reasons to himself, but he’s eager. He probably would have stopped by to see Will after his visit with Jack, anyway, but when he smelled that familiar brimstone and gummy candy scent so strong on the man? Essentially guaranteeing that Will’s son is with him? Hannibal hardly has a choice now.

Still, he hasn’t _completely_ abandoned his manners. He times his visit to coincide with the very end of Will’s last class of the day. He enters the lecture hall at the same time the last student is leaving. When Will looks up, irritation melts to a sort of resigned amusement that Hannibal can’t for the life of him think of the cause of.

“Hannibal.”

“Will, good afternoon. I stopped by to offer my insights on the, ah, Lost Boys, I think he called it? I came to meet with Jack and thought I’d stop by.”

Will doesn’t get the opportunity to reply before a thin child with angular features steps out from behind the desk. Dressed in all black with dark red eyes that stare unblinkingly, Hannibal can certainly see how Will has had difficulties socializing Lowell. The boy moves as hunters move in the dark, but he does so blatantly in the light. Coupled with the sulfuric burn of his scent (though Hannibal’s sense of smell is much stronger than most, the scent is strong enough to just barely register on an instinctual level for most people), the boy is rather off-putting. 

Hannibal will not be put off by a strange child, however,

“Who do we have here?”

Will puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is Lowell. Lowell, this is my friend, Hannibal.”

The boy doesn’t speak or make a move to acknowledge Hannibal’s presence, other than his eyes watching his every move as Hannibal crouches in front of him. He stares into Hannibal’s eyes, a stark contrast to his father, without speaking. Hannibal gets the distinct and almost unpleasant impression that he’s being weighed, judged, and he might not turn out worthy.

Still without a word, Lowell holds out his two hands, where he holds four spiders. It’s impossible, of course, but it looks like they’re standing at attention, staring at Hannibal as Lowell stares at him. _A survival instinct of some sort from the spiders,_ he thinks.

Aloud, he says, “Ah, _kukulcania hibernalis,_ the southern house spider.”

As if speech was all that was required to break the spell, Lowell blinks and frowns. Just that simply, he’s suddenly a normal little boy. Wearing a lot of black, maybe, but normal nonetheless.

“No,” he says firmly. “That’s not their name.”

Hannibal cocks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Lowell takes a tiny, hesitant step toward Hannibal. When he makes no move to withdraw, some of the tension leaves the boy’s tiny frame.

“They’re all named Will,” Lowell says, voice low but in no way inaudible to either adult in the room. Hannibal finds himself inexplicably charmed.

“It’s a very good name,” he agrees solemnly. When he glances up, Will is smiling helplessly behind his hand. His blue eyes sparkle with good humor. Hannibal winks and is delighted when Will rolls his eyes.

 _Such impudence,_ he thinks fondly.

He stands, already devising a way to have both of them at his dinner table tonight, along with Abigail. Before he can open his mouth, Lowell _growls._

It is not a playful sound, nor is it one Hannibal was under the impression human vocal cords were capable of. It scrapes along his instincts unpleasantly, a clear warning, a blatant threat. When Hannibal looks down at Lowell, the boy is staring again, one lip quivering with a hint of a snarl. Hannibal quite forgets himself for a moment - for just a few beats, it’s the predator that lives beneath his breast looking back at Lowell Graham.

The smallest, _smallest_ smile breaks over Lowell’s face, like the clouds parting after a storm. He gently clears one of his hands of spiders before offering it to Hannibal to shake.

Despite its recent inhabitants and the gummy candy scent that clings to him, the small palm that meets Hannibal’s is clean, dry, and warm.

“It is so very good to finally meet you, little wolf,” Hannibal says sincerely. Even if he wasn’t thoroughly enamored of Will, Lowell would have fascinated him instantaneously.

When he releases the boy, he goes to his father and bites the sleeve of Will’s shirt, eyes still on Hannibal, though they’ve lost the otherworldly look they had just moments before. Hannibal hopes the biting of sleeves is something only Will is subject to. 

“An occasion worth celebrating, I think,” Hannibal says. “I’d like to request the pleasure of your company for dinner this evening. Abigail and Lowell, of course, are more than welcome.”

Will stares at him for a beat, and oh yes, Hannibal can see Will in Lowell, and vice versa.

Will looks down at his son. “What do you think, pup? Does that sound good?”

Lowell growls and shakes Will’s sleeve a bit. _The child is not for the faint of heart._

Will meets Hannibal’s eyes again. “Before I say yes, you should know that Lowell has a condition that requires he be vegetarian. I know that’s not your… Usual shtick.”

A faint, far away alarm bell goes off in Hannibal’s head, but he dismisses it as an overabundance of caution, No matter the knowing, amused gleam in Will’s eye, it’s only at Hannibal’s well-known and unapologetic carnivorous lifestyle. If Will suspected more, he would never allow Abigail or Lowell to sit at his table.

“I’d be happy to accommodate.”

* * *

Will feels like he understands Hannibal a bit more now. Knowing what he knows and sitting at Hannibal’s huge, ostentatious dining table, watching the man serve his son vegetable soup? Will’s having a _blast._

His only real worry was Abigail. He didn’t want to frighten her, or for her to blow anyone’s cover, but it’s much more important to him to not lie to her. _Especially_ about what’s in her food.

So when he picked her up, he left Lowell in the car with a documentary about Ted Bundy playing at full volume. He told her what he knows about Hannibal and gave her the option of going home.

She surprised him by biting her lip thoughtfully, then asking, “Is he dangerous?”

The answer for a normal man would be _of course._ Will simply said, “Not to us.”

She nodded, and now here they are.

Though Lowell’s stew is meat-free per Will’s instruction, his own and Abi’s have thick, dark blood sausage chunks in it. Will doesn’t hesitate for a second, and Abi shows only a moment of doubt before she takes her first bite. It’s delicious and sends flavor bursting over Will’s tongue. The exact nature of the meat makes a deep, buried part of him tingle in delight.

Will has a feeling that Hannibal Lecter is going to be very, very bad for his self-control.

“This is _amazing,_ Dr. Lecter,” Abi gushes with a smile. It’s a genuine one, and Will relaxes a little. She’d insisted she could handle this and she’s proving it now. He’s proud of her.

“Thank you, Abigail,” Hannibal replies, “and please, just Hannibal.”

“Only if you call me Abi,” she says, firm but polite. Will grins at her, near to bursting with pride now. She blushes prettily at the attention.

“Abi, then,” Hannibal agrees. His sharp eyes take in the silent exchange between them, but he doesn’t comment. “And you, Lowell? I trust the stew is to your liking?”

 _“Not_ with your mouth full,” Will says sharply. Lowell gives him a little grimace, at which Abi laughs, before swallowing.

“‘S good,” he finally says.

Will sighs. “And what do you say, pup?”

Lowell sighs, too, needlessly dramatic, every inch a normal,e exasperated seven-year-old. Will loves him so much his heart hurts.

 _“Thank you,_ Hannibal.”

Hannibal’s voice is thick with amusement. “It’s my pleasure, Lowell.”

* * *

If Will were the kind of man who whistled as he worked, he’d be whistling right now.

Dinner was _wonderful_ last night. Despite the secrets between them, it was remarkably easy at Hannibal’s place to just _sit_ and _be._ Even Lowell was well-behaved and only a little weird (his eyes lingered on the blood sausage just a little too long to be considered normal, but Will takes wins where he can get them).

Once they were home and the kids were in bed, Will took out the folder Beverly left with him. Now he’s making his way to Jack’s office to offer what he can. He has some thoughts, it’s actually fascinating-

When he gets to Jack’s office, he sees the man himself sitting in one of the chairs he uses for visitors. They’re low, and while they’re reasonably comfortable, they tend to make whoever sits in them feel unsettled.

Unless, of course, someone is _already_ unsettled.

He walks in, the folder in his hand all but forgotten.

“What do you want, Will?” Jack’s voice is flat, uninterested. He doesn’t look at Will.

_He knows about Bella._

Jack Crawford is an asshole. He’s a bully and he uses his strong personality and deep, loud voice to intimidate and influence the people around him. He and Will have butted heads more than once.

Jack Crawford is also, at his core, a good man. He wants to save lives, and he cares about his team even as he pushes and pushes and _pushes._ Will is in a unique position to know that Jack has very little actual darkness in him.

Which is why Will places the folder on the table between the chairs and sits in the other chair. He stares at the opposite wall of the office, the same one Jack is staring at.

When he speaks, it’s low, slow. “I’m going to sit here until you’re ready to talk. You don’t have to say a word until you’re ready but I’m not leaving until you do.”

With that, Will settles in to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Hannibal Lecter is a Will Graham simp and I am not accepting criticism of this concept at this time. Thank you.


	5. Chapter Five

Will knows that there are plenty of psychiatrists interested in his hyper empathy and that a decent number of them don’t even have a malicious interest. He has nothing against academic study, and he’s even sat down with one or two of them for interviews, with an explicit contract rendering all of it ineligible for publishing until his death.

Frederick Chilton’s interest, on the other hand, is almost unholy in its covetousness. It makes Will’s skin crawl. Though he doesn’t need a buffer, he’s glad for Jack’s presence. Having a witness around is all that’s keeping Will from socking Dr. Chilton in the face.

“Ah,” the man is saying, “a  _ teacher.” _ He gestures to the two chairs situated in front of his massive desk. The whole thing is so condescending it makes Will’s teeth ache. “Please, have a seat.”

Will would rather chew his right hand off. “I need to see the crime scene. Alone.”

Chilton frowns. “Dr. Bloom assured me that you would cooperate on procedure.”

“And I will, but I need to be alone.”

Chilton’s eyes narrow in glee. Will yearns to take a shower.

“Ah, yes, that thing you do. You’re quite the topic of conversation in psychiatric circles.”

Just like that, Will’s had quite enough. Jack must sense it because he opens his mouth to attempt his kind of subtle mediation. Will beats him to it.

“The only psychiatrists that have permission to discuss me in  _ any _ circles know perfectly well they have to wait until those conversations are posthumous,” he says coldly. He smiles and knows there are too many teeth showing. “So the conversations you’re referring to would be rather unsavory, given that they’re so unscrupulous. Not that I think you had anything to do with them, Dr. Chilton, of  _ course.” _

“Of  _ course _ not,” Chilton agrees, obviously put on the back foot by Will’s offense. “I shut them quite down quite regularly, is what I mean. Although I-”

“And I am in your debt for it,” Will interrupts. “The scene?”

* * *

Will pulls himself out of Abel Gideon’s design. He’s frowning down at the carnage. The scent of blood is thick in the air, mingling unpleasantly with the bodily fluids that almost always accompany death and the antiseptic of a normal hospital. He feels unbalanced, confused, irate.

_ Is that me or the killer? _

_ More importantly, do I believe this killer is the Ripper? _

The thought is unsatisfying, and in his disappointment, Will finds his answer.

This was brutal, to be sure. A level of humiliation was inflicted, and a lack of sympathy could maybe indicate the Ripper, but it all lacks a cool neatness that Will expected from his first Ripper scene. On top of that, Will has the distinct impression that this woman didn’t  _ deserve _ the Ripper’s attention, whatever  _ that _ means.

“As far as we know, the Chesapeake Ripper hasn’t killed in over two years. When was Gideon admitted?”

“Almost two years ago.”

_ So even if he’s not the Ripper, his timelines match up. _

Will is letting the situation settle in his mind so he can properly pick it apart when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

* * *

“This is Dr. Lecter.”

“Hannibal,” Will sighs. Hannibal could positively  _ purr. _ Not only has Will reached out to him, a rare occasion indeed, but the relief in the man’s voice when Hannibal answers is as sweet as any aria.

“Will? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Though his voice is tight with stress, Hannibal can also hear a smile in Will’s words. “Don’t speak too soon. I… I need to ask a favor.”

“Oh?”

“I’m going to be at the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane well into this evening. There’s been a murder, and I need to stay here to keep Jack sane and… Figure some things out.”

“And you need another pair of eyes?” An afternoon of Will Graham and murder sounds picturesque.

Will barks out a laugh. Hannibal wants to wrap the sound around his throat like a noose, wear it as a deadly collar.

“No, no, I’d feel a lot less awkward about asking that. It’s… Well, Abi’s been doing great, but I don’t know about leaving her and Lowell alone yet, and my regular babysitter is still busy with their last final. Since the kids already know you, I’m wondering if there’s any way it wouldn’t be a huge overstep to ask if you’ll maybe pick Lowell up from school and keep an eye on both of them until I get home?”

Hannibal doesn’t quite know how to classify the feeling in his chest. Triumph, of course, that he has become so trusted and that his plans to insinuate himself into the Graham-Hobbs family have come so far. The emotion is simply… Warmer,  _ lighter _ than he’s used to. He dismisses the thought immediately.

“No overstep at all,” he says warmly. “I’d be happy to help.”

Another relieved sigh.  _ “Thank _ you, really. I’ll call Lowell’s school and have you put on the list for pickup today.”

_ Only for today. Not as much progress as I’d hoped, then. No matter. _

“Wonderful. Just let me know the address of the school and when to pick him up.”

“Shit,” Will spits guiltily. “Do you have patients today? I didn’t even think, I can-”

“Not this afternoon, no.” A lucky thing, that, though it would have been interesting to see if he’d have chosen the Grahams over his strict twenty-four-hour cancellation policy. “I have no obligations after one.”

“Okay, great. And thank you, again, really.”

“It’s my sincerest pleasure, dear Will.”

* * *

“You’re not Daddy,” Lowell says softly as he approaches Hannibal where he’s parked his Bentley and is leaning against it in the elementary school parking lot.

“Indeed I am not,” Hannibal agrees. Lowell is as unnervingly watchful as always and is dressed in all black again, but he’s… Fidgety.

“Where’s Daddy?”

“Your father has to work late this evening. He asked me to tell you that he’s very sorry, he’ll call you once we return home, and  _ tatum.” _ The Latin word for  _ safe, _ and the password that Will has devised with his son to signify another adult who has Will’s permission to take Lowell from school.

The same sort of wry amusement that was in Will’s voice when he said the word flashes across Lowell’s face when he hears it  _ (like father, like son), _ but he seems untroubled.

“Are we goin’ home now?”

Hannibal nods. “I’m to take you to your sister and I will watch over you tonight.”

“‘Kay.” Lowell seems mostly unconcerned with what Will was convinced would be a big problem. The most worry the boy shows, actually, is the way he eyes Hannibal’s car.

“Do I have to keep my shoes on in your fancy car?”

* * *

Hannibal would do a great many things for Will Graham, but eating what the man normally feeds his family is beyond the pale.

He had enough forethought to bring a small cooler of food. Most of it can probably be found at a lower quality in Will’s refrigerator, but he brought homemade sausage for himself and Abigail, eggs that have never seen the inside of a carton, and cheese that has never been anywhere near a plastic wrapping for everyone.

Not  _ everyone, _ perhaps, considering the seven sets of pleading eyes currently glued to him as he moves around the kitchen. They’re well-trained, only the little terrier whines or fidgets, and even that isn’t incessant.

He’s just finishing whisking the ingredients together and preparing the pan, thinking idly of how difficult it would be to modify his jerky recipe to make it suitable for dogs when Abi walks into the kitchen. The long skirt she wears swirls around her bare feet prettily.

“It feels prosaic,” Hannibal says with a smile, “but I feel duty-bound to ask: have you finished your homework?”

The smile it gets him is a bit tense around the edges. “Yes.”

Once the egg mixture is in the pan, he turns to face her. “Is something troubling you, Abi?”

Her eyes are sharp as they scan his face. “You’re… Making breakfast for dinner?”

_ Ah. _ “Indeed I am.”

“Eggs and sausage was the last meal I was having with my parents.”

Lowell enters the kitchen before Hannibal can speak. He immediately goes to Abi and takes the hem of her tank top between his teeth. She smiles down at him and puts her arm around his shoulders. Hannibal wonders if Lowell can be gently encouraged to grow out of this biting habit.

“It’s okay, puppy,” Abi says. “I’m not upset.”

Though it seems that she is not, Hannibal says, “I didn’t mean to invoke painful memories, Abi. I must apologize.”

There is a wry, disbelieving expression on her face, one which absolutely delights Hannibal, when she says, “It’s okay. I’ve had it with Will since then.”

_ Clever, clever. _

Lowell is also staring at Hannibal. Though his red gaze has lost the open hostility it had the first time they met, it still holds the weight of judgement. Hannibal wonders how much a boy Lowell’s age can see, and how much of that he can comprehend. Did he see Hannibal’s thwarted manipulation for what it was, even on a subconscious level? Though it makes no sense, Hannibal suspects the answer is “yes.”

“Did you have homework, Lowell?”

Once again, he watches raptly as the otherworldly aura that sometimes surrounds Lowell melts away. He scrunches up his little face and releases Abigail’s shirt.

“Yes, but I got it done.”

“Very good. In that case, dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.”

Lowell perks up. “Can I help?” Hannibal has to admit that the drawl in the little wolf’s vowels is endearing.

“If there is a stool you can stand on, you may grate the cheese.” It will be melted into the egg anyway, it won’t matter what it looks like.

Abi points. “Underneath the sink.” She ruffles Lowell’s hair, smiling when he growls at her (the sound still makes the hairs on Hannibal’s neck stand straight up). “I’ll go feed the dogs and walk them. You guys be good.”

“‘Kay, Abi.”

Once the boy is situated on his stool, Hannibal stands behind him where he can keep an eye on both the stove and Lowell. He takes Lowell’s hands in his to show him how to hold the grater and the block of cheese. The sensation of small hands enveloped in his own is distantly familiar, almost painfully so. For just a moment, he loses himself in memories of fair hair, a tinkling laugh, and a high voice doing her damnedest to say his name.

The weight of Lowell’s slight, warm body settling back against his chest brings Hannibal into the present once again. He looks down at the boy, who seems to be wholly absorbed in his task. The scent of brimstone has stopped stinging at Hannibal’s nose and is now a fact of the Graham’s, this clinging scent of sulfur.

“Very good, Lowell,” he murmurs, studiously sorting through the emotions in his chest.

Lowell looks up and grins at him, baring his sharp little teeth and grinding the top of his head lightly into Hannibal’s sternum.

* * *

Once dinner is eaten and the kitchen has been cleaned, Abi lets the dogs out one last time and Lowell pulls the knitted blanket from the back of the sofa before he directs Hannibal to sit.

“We watch movies sometimes,” the boy explains. “Well, sometimes Daddy reads to us, but your accent is different than ours, and I don’t think you can do the voices right,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I suspect you are correct,” Hannibal says with a smile.

When Abi brings the dogs back in, they pile around the living room floor. Abi herself puts a DVD in, then joins Hannibal on the other end of the couch. She lays with her head on the arm and her legs bent so her feet rest a few inches from his thigh.

To his great surprise, Lowell clambers up into Hannibal’s lap without hesitation. While Hannibal blinks in shock, Lowell arranges the two of them until he’s curled into a tight, almost anxious ball with Hannibal’s arms wrapped around him. The blanket gets draped over them and Abi equally.

As the opening credits of the movie begin, Hannibal realizes that the children  _ are _ worried. The change in routine, as slight as it really is, and as new as the routine itself is, is putting them on edge. Even though Will called and spoke to both of them, explaining that he is only conducting an interview, the lack of their father has let a pall fall over the house.

Almost without his input, his arm tightens around Lowell, and he rests his other hand on top of Abi’s ankle to squeeze it reassuringly.

_ This family, _ he thinks wryly as both children subtly move closer to him,  _ is very, very dangerous. _

He can’t bring himself to feel regret over it.

* * *

Several hours past his kids’ bedtime, Will finally pulls into his driveway. His eyes are gritty and dry, every limb feels like it’s at least twice as heavy as normal, and his mind is fuzzy and slow. He’s glad to be home.

The dogs are too well-trained to bark when he comes in, but they greet him with wagging tails and face-licking. He lets them ground him a little before he follows what appears to be the only light still on, flickering from the living room.

The scene he walks in on makes something in his chest clench, sweetly painful somehow, while also making him pull out his phone to shamelessly document the scene.

Abi is deeply asleep on one end of the couch, her mouth partially open and softly snoring. Her hair is spilled out across the cushion, hopelessly tangled. Her feet appear to be firmly wedged beneath Hannibal’s leg, a feeling Will is very familiar with. The child’s toes are like ice.

Even more endearing is Lowell, who’s sprawled trustingly across Hannibal’s lap, the blanket twisted around his skinny limbs. His face is pressed to Hannibal’s neck. They make quite the picture, Hannibal in his waistcoat and his sleeves rolled up, Will’s son in a black t-shirt and sweats. Will finds it wildly appealing to see Hannibal’s buttoned-up exterior next to the messiness of his little family’s life.

Hannibal allows him to take a few photos with mock wounded dignity until Will huffs out a laugh and puts his phone away.

“Sorry, sorry, I couldn’t resist,” he whispers as he moves through the pack of dogs to the couch.

“I suspect that you didn’t try too terribly hard,” Hannibal says, but he’s smiling.

They do an awkward shuffle until Will manages to pick Lowell up. The pup doesn’t really wake up, but he snuffles into Will’s neck and settles against him easily. When Hannibal stands and tucks the blanket around Abi’s feet, Will sees just how wrinkled the other man’s clothes have become and has to suppress more fond laughter.

Hannibal doesn’t seem to notice. “Is  _ The Exorcist _ usual comfort viewing? I apologize if it isn’t, they-”

“It is,” Will assures him. He smiles down at Lowell’s sleeping face. “He’s kind of a weird kid. Abi takes it in stride.”

“We all process emotions differently. As long as no nightmares come about as a result, I shall let my conscience rest easily.”

“You should.” Will struggles with words for a moment. I… Thank you, Hannibal. I really can’t thank you enough.”

Hannibal’s expression, shadowed as it is in only the light from the television, seems genuinely warm enough. It doesn’t seem like a manipulation when he says, “It was my pleasure, Will. They’re intelligent, polite children.”

Will sorts softly, though what amounts to glowing words of praise from the reserved Dr. Lecter have him feeling warm. “They’re something, all right. Let me walk you out.”

“Did your interviews pan out?” Hannibal asks as he gathers his things, moving quietly in deference to the sleeping children.

Will stifles a groan. “They… Confirmed what I suspected, but Jack is… Not in a great place right now. I don’t think he wanted to hear it.”

Hannibal frowns. “Jack Crawford’s insistence on asking you to help and then disregarding what you offer is difficult to wrap my head around.”

“It’s only this killer, the Chesapeake Ripper.” Will figures Hannibal probably has enough clearance to know that, at least. Not to mention his personally vested interest in keeping Will chasing killers other than himself. “It just… Winds him up, messes with his head. Plus,” Will says with a smile, “not everyone holds my input in quite as high regard as you do.”

Hannibal pauses in the act of pulling his coat on, just for a moment. He seems to come to a decision in that split second. He finishes pulling his coat on, then steps close, closer than they usually are, even. “I would hope,” he says slowly, softly, “that I’ve made it quite clear that no one holds you in higher regard than I do.”

Will blinks and his heart speeds up. His mind races to try to figure out what angle Hannibal is working, but he can’t find anything. Hannibal is already here, well on his way to establishing himself as part of the family. For the first time, it sinks in that Hannibal might actually have  _ feelings _ for him, outside of whatever extra-curricular activities he has planned for them.

“It’s… Yeah. You’re not subtle.”

Hannibal’s face is mostly in shadow. Will wishes he could see his eyes.

“Should I assume, then, that that regard is not returned?”

And  _ dammit, _ he should say yes, it’s not returned. He should let the two of them play out that fiction together until those feelings fade. Whatever Hannibal is, Lowell and Abi have to come first, and Will can’t ask Hannibal to give up so much of who he is and what he does for them.

Well, he  _ shouldn’t _ ask it, anyway. Looking at Hannibal in his kitchen, though, rumpled and covered in dog hair and clearly very tired, he just… He can’t do it.

“It is,” he rasps. “It is returned,  _ God, _ but… Hannibal, we’d have to go so slow. Glacially slow. In every aspect. Lowell is... And Abi, too, they need stability and routine and it would… I can’t ask that of you.”

In the silence that follows, Will realizes how deep he’s gotten into this thing with Hannibal. He’s been intrigued and amused in turns, but he didn’t really let it sink in how much he genuinely  _ likes _ Hannibal.

_ Shit. _

“And if you weren’t asking it of me, but I was offering?” Hannibal takes a step closer.

Will fights to stay where he is and not to move closer himself. “I… I don’t know.” He swallows and keeps his gaze on Hannibal’s tie, charmingly skewed from how he was cradling Lowell to his chest as the boy slept. 

“It’s… Never come up before, I guess. Not like… Not like this.”

Even with how dark it is, Will can see how pleased Hannibal looks. “Good,” he says, shameless. “I much prefer to have your attention on myself. What attention you can spare, that is.”

He smells good,  _ really _ good. It’s distracting. “I meant it. It’s going to have to be a  _ long _ time before anything… Physical happens. Anything more than we have now will take a while. I… Lowell doesn’t do well with change, and Abi has-”

He cuts himself off to watch as Hannibal lifts one lovely, strong, long-fingered hand to cradle Will’s jaw in his palm. Will wonders if Hannibal will try to kiss him despite the warning he just gave. Will wonders if he’ll let him.

Unsurprisingly, Hannibal does no such thing, and Will is  _ not _ disappointed. Hannibal just holds his face in his hand before smoothing the pad of his thumb gently under Will’s eye.

“As long as I can have this,” Hannibal whispers, “and, perhaps, the promise of a future, then I shall be quite satisfied, I think.”

Emotions threaten to choke Will.  _ God. _ He’s never imagined, not with the kids, that anyone would be okay with the rigidly controlled chaos that is his life. He cradles Lowell tighter to him and tilts his face into the touch.

“You have it. It’s yours.”

Hannibal’s smile is victorious, predatory. To Wil, it’s starting to look like home.

* * *

The moment with Hannibal in his darkened house remains a place of comfort in Will’s mind, somewhere he can go to seek solace in the blur that is the next couple of weeks.

He argues vehemently with Jack about involving  _ Freddie fucking Lounds _ in  _ any _ aspect of  _ any _ investigation. He sits across a table from her and trades swipes, snarling at her while she beatifically smiles and pretends to try to find common ground with him. He wants to wrap his hands around her neck and see if she’s still smirking after that.

He still teaches, of course. He refuses to let his classes suffer for his involvement in the Ripper case, but that means he’s spread thin. His office hours, not often taken advantage of in the first place, are closed completely down. He gives the students his cell phone number instead and occasionally answers a question in the middle of the morgue while Price and Zeller shout out wrong answers.

Abi sees his stress level rise and picks up more slack at home, no matter how guilty it makes Will feel. Lowell, too, keeps his antics to a minimum - only one morning that week does Will find a spider web in his coffee mug, and since he finds it before he pours the coffee, it barely even registers for him. He promises himself  _ and _ the kids that they’ll do something fun once things blow over.

And Hannibal… Well, he’s still Hannibal. They meet on Thursdays, but sometimes they talk on the phone, too. Will finds out that Hannibal knows how to text, which blows his mind for some reason. He uses shorthand because he knows it will make Hannibal purse his lips in irritation.

He’s thinking about it at the breakfast table and trying to make sure he’s not smiling like an idiot. When Lowell tugs at his sleeve, his son’s troubled face immediately sobers him. He turns to face him.

“What’s wrong, pup?”

Lowell hands Will his own tablet with a severe frown.  _ Tattlecrime’s _ header splashes across the top of the screen.

Now Will is frowning, too. “Why are you reading this?”

Lowell ignores him. “Why is she lying, Daddy?”

“What? Who? Freddie Lounds?”

“Mhm.”

_ Because she’s a vile bitch _ doesn’t seem appropriate for his seven-year-old, no matter how weird he is, so Will restrains himself. “What are you talking about?”

_ “Hannibal. _ Why is she lying about Hannibal?”

Will blinks, then takes a closer look at the title of the article.

_ How the Ripper Rips: An Exclusive Interview _

“Lowell,” he says slowly, “what are you talking about? Lounds doesn’t mention Hannibal here at all.”

Lowell’s face darkens in frustration. He stamps his foot in an uncharacteristic display - Will blames Hannibal for his son’s developing sense of drama.

“Daddy,  _ Hannibal _ is the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Several thoughts assault Will all at once.

_ Capable hands, strong and agile, surgeon’s hands. Human meat served at almost every meal. What is he doing with the organs? A waistcoat soaked in blood. Crooked teeth in a warm, charming smile. _

_ So that’s what kind of monster you are. _

Stifling amusement at the thought of telling Hannibal just two weeks ago that he was after the Ripper, Will says, “Hannibal is one of those things that you and I know about, but no one else does.”

“But why is she  _ lying?” _

Will sighs. “Sometimes reporters, especially reporters on the internet, lie so more people will read what they write.” Not  _ exactly _ what’s going on here, but close enough, and an important lesson.

Lowell’s bottom lip sticks out and he crosses his arms. “That’s dumb. No one should lie about Hannibal. I like him.”

Will laughs and ruffles his son’s hair. “‘Course you do, pup. He’s just your kinda guy.”

* * *

That same afternoon, Will leans against the bedroom wall of Jack Crawford’s home and listens to the man snarl. 

“In my house. In my bedroom. Where my wife  _ sleeps!” _

Even Price seems solemn. “I’ve dusted the phone, got a lot of usable prints. I’ve got three distinct beauties here. Yours, your wife’s, and presumably the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“I can’t imagine the Chesapeake Ripper would start leaving prints at a crime scene now,” Zeller murmurs, doubt thick in his voice.

Beverly tweezes something off of one of the pillows on the bed. “The Ripper put his head on your wife’s pillow. There he is.” She holds up a long hair. “Or there  _ she _ is. Was Miriam Lass a blonde?”

“Yes,” Jack says reluctantly, eyeing the hair.

“I pulled her fingerprints from the ViCAP database, Jack,” Price says regretfully. “I got a match.”

Jack starts shouting again and Will’s eyes fall closed.

_ God dammit, Hannibal. _

* * *

“I love Norton grapes. Same color inside as outside. Peel it and the flesh is also purple, not like other grapes where flesh is white and color comes from within.”

Frederick Chilton huffs in amusement. “A grape with nothing to hide.”

Hannibal is having the most  _ delightful _ evening, really. He cooked a rather delicious dinner, if he may say so himself. His table is graced with the presence of the lovely Dr. Bloom, whose company he quite genuinely enjoys. He gets to alternately goad and confound Dr. Chilton, a happily engaging pastime. He knows somewhere Jack Crawford is slowly succumbing to guilt, panic, and anger. It will be truly fascinating to see what happens next.

_ You shouldn’t have taunted me, Jack. _

Of course, that does mean that Will will most likely be quite occupied for the next few days, which is disappointing but expected. As much as Hannibal wants to be back in Wolf Trap, or to have Will’s little family at his table again, he’ll satisfy himself with phone calls and text messages as he has been. No matter  _ how _ appalling Will’s written grammar is.

Since the night he watched the children, Hannibal has been nearly  _ euphoric. _ They haven’t referenced their charged conversation since, but the knowledge that Will has started to feel something for him, the  _ confirmation, _ has been exhilarating. It’s enough that Hannibal has carefully considered and decided to forgo any plans to manipulate Will outside of his current inching closer to the little wolf pack.

He sees in Will an equal in all things, on all sides, including in darkness, though he’s yet to see the real shape of Will’s. In the children he sees prodigies, students,  _ legacies. _ It will be slow going, of course, he’d never frighten or anger Will into leaving, but in the end, it will be satisfying work.

_ I will bind you to me in whatever way I am able, _ he vows to Will in his head.

On the surface, he leans close to Dr. Chilton. “I promise, I'm much more forgiving of the unorthodox than Dr. Bloom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Did I plan a feelings confession in the middle of this chapter? No. Did it happen without my permission or input? Yes.  
> \- The credit for _The Exorcist_ being Lowell's comfort movie goes to my brother, whose suggestion had me rolling.


End file.
